Child Abuse

Four years ago, a young girl vanished under mysterious circumstances after school.

At the time, I had just lost my job and was running a snack stall outside the kindergarten gates. Word was that her parents had been waiting right outside the whole time, yet they never saw her come out.

In the aftermath, the family’s grief-stricken protests and a massive compensation settlement forced the kindergarten to shut down.

Four years later, I’ve changed careers and come across the case files from that day.

Certain things I experienced while running that stall have started to crystallize in my mind. And those details are enough to completely overturn the entire case.

My Mother was a courtesan, earning money with her own flesh and blood to support my father’s studies and imperial examinations.

Five years later, my father succeeded and was granted marriage to a princess by the Emperor.

Yet, in the Golden Throne Hall, he refused the marriage at the risk of his own life, and with great fanfare, married my Mother with ten miles of red bridal procession.

The princess was displeased.

Three days later, Mother was found abused and disheveled, dying at the entrance of an alley.

Half a year later, the princess finally married my father as she wished.

She did not know that this was the beginning of her misfortune.

My Elder Sister and I have been bitter rivals since we were children.

At three, we fought over our mother’s attention; at five, we fought over the little boy across the street.

When we were six, people from the Marquis Manor came to claim her, saying my Elder Sister was their long-lost legitimate daughter who had been taken away as an infant.

I was so furious I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Later, my father-who had been away fighting at war for fifteen years-returned with a promotion and a fortune to take me away as well.

Once I arrived at the General’s Manor, the first thing I did was rush over to the Marquis Manor.

I stood there shouting for Gu Ruan to come out and face her doom, when suddenly, a small head poked out from the entrance.

She had my Elder Sister’s face. She toddled toward me, swaying unsteadily on her feet. “Mother is dead. Auntie, hold me~”

The night I was sent into the Royal Palace, snow was falling from the heavens.

One hundred and twenty silver lamps lined the steps, but their wicks were not made of cotton; they were segments of little finger bones coated in white wax.

Everyone said that as long as I sold my last box of matches to the Crown Prince, Baili City would survive this winter.

Only I knew that the flames capable of conjuring the scent of bread, the crackle of a hearth, and the warmth of a grandmother’s smile were not blessings from God.

They were the final dreams of children who had frozen to death in the streets.

Tonight, the Royal Palace was coming for mine.

I transmigrated into the mistress of the Marquis’s Mansion, and my stepson was the devoted second male lead.

When he grew up, he would try to take the female lead by force and spend fortunes on her without blinking.

As for the male lead, he would sow discord, frame him, and set him up at every turn.

In the end, the male and female leads would join forces to defeat him.

He would flee into monastic life and never marry.

And the Marquis’s Mansion, implicated because of him, would be raided, stripped of its title, and tragically exiled.

After transmigrating, I looked at the tiny little thing in front of me, pretending to be obedient.

He wanted to grow gloomy and brooding? Absolutely not.

He was going to become sunny if it killed me. He wanted to squander money?

Absolutely not. I had to raise him into a stingy, family-minded model of virtue.

I was definitely going to protect the vast fortune of the Marquis’s Mansion.

Later, everyone said I threw money around like dirt and lived in arrogant, extravagant luxury.

My stepson refuted them.

“Nonsense. My mother is the most frugal, capable, virtuous, and dignified woman there is. She sponsored so many scholars with money she saved up herself. Could you do that?”

Someone said my methods were ruthless and that I acted like a man.

My stepson’s face turned cold.

“My mother is gentle, virtuous, and the very soul of benevolence. She clearly could have just robbed you outright, yet she still gave you a chance to compete fairly. You’re the one who was useless. Utter trash.”

Even his father couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Son, open your eyes and take a good look. Your mother is not the kind of person who lets herself be wronged.”

My stepson flew into a rage.

“Father, don’t force me to turn against you. You can say whatever you want about me, but you absolutely cannot say that about my mother.”

On the day my stepsister was murdered.

I told my dad and the police that I had gone to school to do homework, that I hadn’t been home, and that I really didn’t know what had happened.

But the truth was, I lied.

I once saved a pregnant noblewoman. She smiled and told me that once the child was born, they would recognize me as their godmother.

But later, as I led my troops to station at the border, we gradually lost touch.

Until one day, eight years later, my subordinates reported that someone had come all the way from Jinling, specifically asking to see me by name.

“Who is it?” I asked as I walked toward the entrance.

There, I saw a young girl sitting atop a pony, threatening the group of soldiers surrounding her.

“Song Yunying is my mother! If you dare bully me, you’re all finished!”

I am Song Yunying.

In 2016, I was working as a security guard in a residential complex.

A homeowner’s ten-year-old daughter vanished from her bedroom under bizarre circumstances.

On the rumpled bedsheets, all that remained was a pair of bloodstained underwear.

The police and all of us searched for her with everything we had, but we found no leads at all.

Then I remembered a fairy tale the girl had once told us about when she was playing in the complex.

It was called the “Tooth Fairy.” Years later, I got married and had a child of my own.

When my kid reached the age of losing baby teeth, my wife told her a bedtime story.

And once again, I heard the words “Tooth Fairy.” Startled, I asked, “Is that how the story goes?”

“Yeah.”

That night, after lying awake until dawn, I contacted the officer who had been in charge of the case back then.

“We were wrong all those years ago.”

The summer I turned ten, my younger sister went missing.

She vanished on her way to deliver lunch to our parents.

There were no security cameras, and no one had seen her.

Because I was the one who was supposed to have gone, my mother never spoke another word to me again.

Fifteen years later, I became a police officer. I retraced the path my sister took that day, over and over again.

The past began to resurface in my mind, piece by piece.

Slowly, I pieced together a heartbreaking truth.

On the day the divorce was finalized, I booked a high-speed rail ticket back to my hometown. A phone, an ID card, and a bank card with a meager balance were all I had left.

When the butler called to say the young master was crying for his mother, I finally understood that the son I had borne and his father loved the same woman.

Before the train left, I made one last promise: I would never disturb him again.