In my heart, I knew that what was being proposed was a criminal act. That night, when I returned to the cramped room I called home, I found my daughter lying on the bed, eyes closed, seemingly asleep.
However, after a moment, I sensed something was wrong. As I drew closer, I noticed traces of tears on her face, clearly a sign that she had been crying recently. I quickly sat beside her, asking repeatedly if anything was wrong or if she felt unwell.
After a long pause, she sat up and reached for a piece of paper. Born mute, she could not speak, so she communicated with me through writing.
On the paper, she had written in neat characters: "This afternoon, I accidentally touched my deskmate's clothes. She insisted that the clothes were dirty and demanded that I pay for them." Tears, as large as beans, rolled down her face, soaking the paper. She wrote again, "My hands are clean, they're not dirty."
My heart broke as I pulled her into my arms, softly comforting her. Once her emotions settled a little, I coaxed her to sleep, gently wiping away the remnants of her tears from the corner of her eyes.
Having once been a child myself, I understood all too well that the claim of dirty clothes was nothing more than an excuse. Those other children simply saw my daughter as an easy target, deliberately isolating her. The truth was, she had no allies in her class, and I, a mother who seemed to possess little power, was all she had.
That night, I lay in bed, pulling the covers over my head, the suffocating feeling of helplessness rising in my chest. I did this to keep myself from losing control, to stifle the cry that threatened to break free. In that moment, I made a resolute decision: I would earn that money from the dead.