I’d just wrapped up a cross-continental meeting when my phone buzzed with an unfamiliar number. “Are you Dennis Miller’s mother? Please come to the school. Your son led a bullying incident today, and the other parent is demanding compensation!” The voice on the line was sharp, accusatory. My fingers paused, and I instinctively straightened my posture. “Excuse me, I think you have the wrong number. My son attends middle school in Canada; he’s not in school here.” There was a moment of silence, then the voice grew colder. “Our records show you as the guardian, Sarah Miller, an employee of Radiant Group, and this is your cell number. So, is your son named Dennis Miller?” My mind went blank. My name is Sarah Miller, I’m a director at Radiant Group, and my son is indeed named Dennis. After my husband passed away, my son went to live with my parents in Canada. How could he possibly be enrolled in a school here? I didn’t get a chance to explain further before the caller hung up. Half an hour later, I rushed to the Dean’s office at that private middle school. Pushing open the door, a heavy, stifling atmosphere hit me. Several teachers were huddled around a middle-aged woman, speaking in hushed, comforting tones. The woman’s eyes were red and swollen as she clutched a thin, trembling boy beside her. The child had a bandage on his forehead and was still quietly sobbing. On a nearby chair sat a boy with a bowl-cut. Two buttons on his school uniform were undone, his pant legs rolled up to his knees, and he was picking at his fingers. There wasn’t a shred of remorse on his face; instead, he radiated an almost arrogant defiance. At the sound of the door opening, everyone’s eyes snapped toward me. The bowl-cut boy’s eyes lit up. He shot up from his seat, rushed over, and grabbed my wrist, his voice loud and demanding: “Mom! You’re finally here! You have to back me up!” I froze, instinctively shaking off his hand. “You’ve got the wrong person. I’m not your mom.” He paused, then burst into ear-piercing wails. “Mom, why are you pretending not to know me?! They started it; I just pushed him! It’s his fault for not letting me copy his homework!” Owen’s mother immediately turned red with fury, pointing at me. “Is that how you teach your child? He assaulted someone and now you won’t even acknowledge it, you won’t even acknowledge him?” A woman in her early thirties with a frown on her face walked over. “Hello, Ms. Miller, I’m Brenda Collins, from the school. “I just checked our records, and they do show you as Dennis Miller’s guardian. Your child pushed a classmate into a bookshelf, and he needed three stitches on his forehead. The other parents are demanding $7,000 for medical expenses and emotional damages.” I swallowed my surprise and explained, “I came to your school to ask why you have my information in the first place? “My son has always been in Canada; he’s never attended school here!” Then I pointed at the boy. “And he is not my son. I don’t even know him!” The boy’s crying stopped for a second, his eyes darting around before he jutted out his chin and yelled, “You are my mom! Your name is Sarah Miller! You work at Radiant Group! I’m not wrong!” My heart plummeted at his words. How could he possibly know all that information? I instantly calmed myself, staring directly at him. “Shut up, I’m not your mom!” Then I turned to the bullied child. “Little one, did he hit you first?” The child timidly nodded. “He always bullies me. Today, when I wouldn’t let him copy my homework, he pushed me down and said he’d make me regret it.” Seeing this, the bowl-cut boy suddenly lunged to hit him again, shouting, “You’re lying! I’ll rip your mouth off!” I quickly grabbed him, only to find he was surprisingly strong. He struggled, trying to kick, and kept spewing curses. “Let go of me! You’re all bad people! My mom has money; she’ll get you all fired!” The teachers rushed to help hold him down, their faces etched with helplessness. “This boy often bullies classmates, stealing things and yelling at people. We never expected him to be this violent.” Owen’s mother trembled with rage. “You need to give us a clear explanation today! Either pay up, or I’m calling the police!” I looked at this unfamiliar, aggressive boy, my mind swirling with doubt. Why was he using my son’s name to attend school? And why was he pretending I was his mother? Something was definitely wrong here. “Call the police then.” I pulled out my phone. “Let the police investigate who his guardian really is and why he’s using my son’s identity to enroll.”
Just as I raised my phone to call the police, the Dean’s office door burst open with a bang. A bald man with a menacing expression stormed in. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing a network of brutal tattoos. Owen, his face full of grievances, stumbled toward him. “Dad, Dad!” The bald man instantly pulled his son into a fierce embrace, his gaze sweeping over the bandage on Owen’s forehead. His pupils constricted, and his fury ignited. He looked up abruptly, his roar shaking the room. “Who’s Dennis’s parent? Get out here!” The office fell silent. Everyone’s eyes instinctively darted to me. The bald man followed their gazes, locking onto me, and immediately charged. Before I could even speak, a searing pain exploded across my cheek. Smack! The bald man’s fist slammed into me. The force was immense; I stumbled back several steps and fell to the floor, a fiery pain spreading through my nerves. “You’re that monster’s parent, aren’t you? Look at the kind of child you’ve raised!” Still seething, the bald man struggled to lunge at me again, but two teachers held him back. Brenda offered some feigned concern. “Mr. Black, please try to calm down. Let’s not resort to violence in front of the children!” She glanced at me, a hint of satisfaction in her eyes. The arrogant bowl-cut boy, Caleb, now trembled uncontrollably, clinging to my clothes and hiding behind me. I stood up straight, wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth, and explained, “Mr. Black, you’ve got the wrong person. I am absolutely not this child’s parent! “My son’s name is Dennis Miller, but he’s been in Canada since he was three and has never attended this school!” I pointed at Caleb, my voice hardening. “I came here today to figure out why you have my phone number and why my son’s information is in your archives!” The bald man paused, the furious expression on his face instantly vanishing, replaced by a flicker of doubt that creased his brow. He pushed away the teachers holding him, grabbed Caleb by the collar, and roared, “Tell me, is she really your mom or not?” Caleb’s face went ashen, but he still jutted out his chin, not a hint of guilt in his eyes. “She is my mom! I’m not lying!” “She’s a director at Radiant Group and has lots of money! She can pay Owen’s compensation!” Brenda, far from trying to de-escalate, added, “That’s right, Dennis’s records indeed list Ms. Miller as his guardian.” “All the information was entered through proper procedures; there couldn’t be a mistake!” The bald man’s fury reignited. He released Caleb and advanced toward me. I backed away repeatedly until my back hit the corner of a desk. He stared into my eyes, grinding his teeth. “If you say he’s not your son, then how would he know all your information?” “Are you the director of Radiant Group?” I straightened my back, meeting his gaze, and said each word distinctly. “I am Sarah Miller, and I do work at Radiant Group, but I am absolutely not this child’s mother. Someone has impersonated me and my son!” The moment I finished speaking, Caleb’s face crumpled, tears and snot streaming down. “Mommy, why won’t you acknowledge me? I’m Dennis!” “I’m sorry, I won’t be naughty and bully classmates again! Mommy, please don’t abandon me.” Crying, he pulled a photo from his pocket and handed it to Brenda . “This is a photo of me and Mom when I was little. Please, Teacher, tell Mom not to abandon me.”
In the photo, I was wearing a cream-colored dress, holding a seven or eight-month-old baby boy in my arms. My mind went blank. This photo was taken a week before my husband’s death. Soon after, my son went to Canada with my parents. But how did it end up in this child’s hands? The bald man also saw the photo. The confusion in his eyes gradually faded, replaced by an icy glare, as if he was convinced I was deliberately trying to deflect blame. Brenda’s voice suddenly turned stern. “Ms. Miller, that’s you in the photo, isn’t it?” Scornful, mocking gazes from everyone in the room converged on me. I tried to explain, but my throat tightened, unable to utter a sound. Because it was indeed me, undeniable. “Since it’s you, stop trying to shirk responsibility!” Brenda took the photo, her tone laced with reprimand. “A child’s misbehavior comes from bad parenting, but a parent avoiding responsibility is utterly despicable! A woman like you doesn’t deserve to be a mother; you have no moral compass! “To avoid a few thousand dollars in compensation, you’d disown your own child? You’re heartless! People like you are a menace; you not only corrupt your child but ruin their entire life!” I stared at her, stunned, unable to comprehend such hostility from a teacher. I took a deep breath, forcing down the surging emotions. “I really am not his mother!” “Why don’t we call the police right now and let them investigate this identity theft…” Before I could finish, the bald man cut me off. “Don’t pretend anymore!” A mocking smirk played on his lips. “Parents with such dishonest, irresponsible character are bound to raise a bullying monster!” The teachers and parents in the office nodded in agreement. “She looks so respectable, but who knew she’d be so irresponsible!” “The child just made a small mistake; she should help him correct it. How could a parent disown her own son?” “And she’s a director at Radiant Group? Shifting blame over such a minor issue, doesn’t she feel ashamed?” They mocked me openly, completely ignoring what I had just said. I trembled with rage, my peripheral vision catching Caleb. He was hiding within the crowd, the fear he’d shown earlier replaced by a triumphant smirk. He was smiling at me, his eyes full of provocation, as if watching a twisted play. Rage instantly clouded my judgment. I lunged forward, grabbing his arm with such force that he immediately grimaced in pain. “Ow! Let go of me!” I clamped onto his arm, forcing him to meet my gaze. “I’m asking you, what’s your name?” “I’m Dennis Miller!” “Where is your father?” “I don’t have a father!” “Then what about your mother?” “My mother is…” He was about to continue when he suddenly looked up at me, a chilling, subtle smile playing on his lips. Then, he pointed his small finger at me, his voice clear. “My mom is right here! You’re my mom!” I completely lost it. Ignoring the strange looks from everyone around me, I reached out and clamped my hand around his neck. “You’re still lying!” His face instantly turned purplish-blue. His hands flailed wildly, and his eyes shifted from defiance to deep terror. My voice was icy, carrying a ruthlessness I’d never felt before. “I’m giving you one last chance!” “Who is your real mother? How did you get this photo? Who told you to impersonate my son?”
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