Karen, the daughter of my neighbor, is three months pregnant. She sent a message in our building’s SnapChat group, tagging every resident. “My daughter is pregnant, and all expenses for the child will be shared among all residents of Building 3.” “For those who can’t afford to pay, we’ll reluctantly accept valuable items as collateral, like designer bags or jewelry.” “Each household needs to contribute $1,000 upfront. Monthly payments are allowed, but with a $10 interest charge per month.” “Reply to this message to confirm you’ve seen it. Otherwise, I’ll come knocking on your door, and you’ll have to pay an additional $50 inconvenience fee.” Karen swears that her daughter’s baby daddy is one of the residents in our building. The first-floor resident protests, claiming his 90-year-old bedridden father couldn’t possibly have impregnated Karen’s daughter. The seventh-floor resident pleads innocence, stating their apartment has been empty for two years, so it couldn’t have been a ghost from their place. As a single woman living alone on the same floor as Karen, I’m under the most suspicion and am being asked to pay double the “nutrition fee.” I love money too. Is it too much to try and get a few hundred dollars out of Karen’s pocket first?
Last weekend afternoon, all residents of Building 3 were shocked by a message. Karen (402): “My daughter is pregnant. I hereby declare that the child will be raised collectively by all residents in this building.” The sender was my next-door neighbor who had moved into 402 six months ago. Her profile picture was heavily filtered, making her look like she was in her thirties. This was the first time she had spoken in the residents’ group since moving in. Messages flooded in rapidly, with people sending question marks and confused emoji faces. The resident from 501 was the first to mock her: “Did your sense of shame go on vacation with the Great Wall? What does your daughter’s pregnancy have to do with us? If you’re that desperate for money, I can charitably donate some for you to burn at a temple.” Others chimed in with agreement. “You want us all to help raise your grandchild? Will the baby call all of us mom, dad, grandma, and grandpa when it’s born?” “Your daughter didn’t sleep with all of us. Go find whoever got her pregnant.” Karen sent another message, this time a voice note. “How is this not related to you? My daughter was impregnated by someone in this building! You bastards, think you can get away with it after having your fun? Let me tell you, no way!” After hearing Karen’s voice message, everyone’s emotions calmed down a bit. Karen’s implication was clear – her daughter’s baby daddy was someone in this building, and the scumbag had taken advantage of her and was now refusing to take responsibility.
Jenny from 501 quickly apologized: “I’m sorry about earlier, sis. I didn’t know the situation. But you should go after the person responsible, why ask all of us to pay?” Seeing several residents turn sympathetic, Karen became even more aggressive, her tone increasingly disrespectful. “My daughter was knocked unconscious and assaulted just as she got off the elevator one night three months ago. Now she’s pregnant, and I don’t have money to take care of a pregnant woman.” “The son of a bitch who did this is definitely from our building. Since we can’t find out who it is, each household will have to share the cost.” “For now, I’m only collecting for prenatal nutrition and check-ups. Other child-rearing costs will be discussed after the baby is born.” I was speechless. She was clearly trying to swindle the entire building. The resident from 1201 interrupted Karen’s long speech: “We sympathize with what happened to your daughter. However, what you should do now is report it to the police immediately, not cause trouble in the residents’ group.” I had met the resident from 1201 in the elevator before. She’s a teacher at a nearby high school and often helps mediate neighborhood disputes. When she spoke up, others were willing to give her face and stopped saying harsh things about Karen’s messages. But Karen clearly didn’t appreciate it. She tagged 1201 and started cursing. “Report to the police? Report what? You’re supposed to be a teacher, don’t you know not to air your dirty laundry in public? Are you deliberately trying to let everyone know about my daughter’s situation?” “You’re just a slut who’s always flirting with male students at school, trying to drag my daughter down with you? Pah! You shameless bitch, if you dare not pay, I’ll go to your school and let everyone know what kind of filthy trash you are!” “I’ll only say this once in the group: whoever dares to spread the news about my daughter’s pregnancy, be careful I don’t tear your mouth apart.” Amidst Karen’s cursing, the resident from 102 managed to squeeze in a message. “My family only consists of my bedridden elderly father and his female caretaker. Even if your daughter was impregnated by someone, it couldn’t possibly be related to my household, right?” Karen’s fighting spirit was impressive. Her mouth spewed profanities, with many words being censored. After 102 started it, several other households began trying to distance themselves from this troublesome affair and this difficult family. “My apartment has been empty for two years, it couldn’t have been a ghost from my place, right?” “I’ve been on a business trip for six months and haven’t been home.” “Only my mother and daughter live in my place.” …… Karen relentlessly battled with her words against the group, only stopping when no one was willing to engage with her anymore. Interestingly, her daughter, the “protagonist” of this drama, hadn’t said a single word in the group chat throughout the entire ordeal.
The building I live in has two apartments per floor. Next door at 402 lives a mother and daughter pair, and I’ve never seen any man in their family. We occasionally bump into each other in the hallway. Karen dresses fashionably, with tattooed eyebrows and permed hair. Her daughter Lily, despite being only twenty, dresses like she’s in her seventies or eighties. From the few encounters we’ve had, it’s clear that the mother has a bad temper and often scolds her daughter. Lily, on the other hand, is quite polite and always greets me with a smile when we meet. The first time I met them was on the day they moved in. As I came out of the elevator, I saw Karen sitting in her living room, yelling at her daughter. Just because the moving guy had chatted with Lily for a bit, Karen was calling her daughter a “vixen” and a “slut”. Lily seemed meek, keeping her head down as she moved things into the apartment, not responding to her mother’s insults. Karen noticed me passing by and gave me a look that could cut like a knife. At that moment, I had a pretty good idea of what kind of person Karen was. A low-quality, irresponsible, difficult, and aggressively competitive middle-aged woman. It’s a shame that Lily, at such a young age, isn’t immediately reporting this incident to the police. Instead, they’re trying to cover it up and extort money. It’s a disservice to her daughter as well.
Just as the residents’ group chat had quieted down, my doorbell suddenly rang. I peeked through the peephole and saw Karen standing at my door with her hands on her hips, looking displeased. Before I could think much, she started banging on the door aggressively. Lily was behind her mother, tugging at her clothes, trying to persuade her to go home. Karen spat out a curse, calling her daughter “useless girl,” and pushed her away. She then crossed her arms and looked me up and down as if appraising merchandise. “You weren’t sleeping just now, so why didn’t you say anything in the group chat? Are you mute or did your hands fall off?” “Given that you live on the same floor as us, your household is the most suspicious. While others only need to pay one share, you must pay two. And you’ll be responsible for all the fruit. Pregnant women need the most expensive fruits for nutrition and health. You’d better not try to fool us with cheap, pesticide-laden stuff.” I’m the only woman living in my apartment, and there’s no medical miracle that could have made her daughter pregnant. Having witnessed the whole thing, I was fully aware of Karen’s shamelessness and was about to close the door. There’s no point in saying another word to someone like her. Karen was surprisingly strong, forcefully holding the almost-closed door with one hand. But her hand got caught, and a few spots of blood appeared where the skin broke. “You black-hearted little whore, are you blind? If you don’t pay a thousand dollars in compensation today, see if I’ll let you off easy.” She then sat down on my doorstep, hugging my leg and wailing dramatically. No matter how much I tried to shake her off or how red-faced her daughter was trying to pull her away, it was all useless. I glanced at my phone, which had vibrated a few times. It was a private message from Jenny in 501. Jenny (501): “Hang in there, sister. I’ve called the police for you.” Jenny (501): “Let the police deal with this lunatic, otherwise you might not be able to get rid of her today.” Jenny (501): “Let the police lock her up for a few days, see if she dares to make trouble again.” Attached at the end was a gleeful emoji. Unfortunately, Jenny’s hopes were dashed. The police just wanted to smooth things over, suggesting I pay Karen $50 for medical expenses to resolve the matter. Karen was like a victorious rooster. Seeing the police leave, she kicked my door hard and gloated. “You little bitch, you think I can’t deal with you? Pay up obediently, or else… Hmph!” I was so angered by this shameless person that my heart ached. I took a pill of the heart medication my dad had left at my place, and only then did I manage to calm down.
Karen started pestering everyone in the residents’ group daily to pay the “nutrition fee,” but no one responded to her. Jenny vented to me: “It’s unbelievable that they’re not getting rid of this bastard child. Expecting us to help raise the kid, what are this mother and daughter thinking? Have they no shame?” “If we can’t fight her, we can at least avoid her, right? Talk about bad luck. If I hadn’t spent all my savings on this apartment, I’d have moved out already.” Only a few households in this building were renters, including 402. For the past month, Karen had been waiting downstairs early every morning, trying to mooch groceries off people coming back from shopping. She’d take fruits, vegetables, and meat. If anyone refused to give her anything, she’d sit on the ground, grab their legs, and wail, calling passersby to watch the “heartless man” or his family members. The older residents would argue with her until it came to blows. The young girls, being more timid, couldn’t bear the embarrassment of quarreling with her in the busy hallway with onlookers, so they were the ones she swindled the most. At first, she got whatever she asked for. Later, people wisened up and created a group to help each other, timing their returns to her lunch hour. Several renting households were forced to move out overnight. I rarely cook at home, so I secretly rejoiced that she couldn’t bother me. The food delivery app showed that the delivery guy had already taken a photo of my lunch at the building’s designated delivery spot. After searching carefully several times, I couldn’t find it. Before I could call the delivery driver to ask, Karen posted several photos in the residents’ group, tagging me. The sushi I had splurged on to reward myself after finally satisfying a client’s demands after several sleepless nights appeared in the photos. The luxurious sushi was already half-eaten, with the remains mixed with fruit peels and other scraps in the delivery box. “You have money to order such expensive food, but you don’t know to pay the nutrition fee voluntarily?” “Don’t think I don’t know what you do for a living. I hardly ever see you leave your apartment, you don’t go to work, yet you spend money so lavishly. You must be kept by some man, probably that old guy who visited your place last time.” “Since you earn money just by lying down, you should pay three shares of the nutrition fee, and you’ll also be responsible for my daughter’s lunch from now on.” Karen continued to condescendingly “instruct” me in the group chat, warning me to be careful not to let the original wife find out and scratch my face. I responded with a string of angry poop emojis. I was about to continue, but Jenny from 501 sent me a message: “I advise you not to confront her head-on. Just endure it, at most be more careful when ordering takeout in the future. Don’t tell me you don’t know about what happened to Mrs. Thompson on the twelfth floor?”
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