A Distorted Genius Torments Me. I Choose Freedom

My son, a math prodigy.

Severely injured in a car accident, I was late for the party celebrating his college acceptance. As usual, hed prepared a set of number puzzles for me.

He said, Mom, once you solve the puzzles, you'll find the key to get in and see me.

I called my husband, his voice impatient, "Those who make mistakes should be punished. If our son understands this, why don't you?"

Under the blazing sun, I spent five hours, finally finding that small key.

But at that moment, I suddenly felt a profound weariness.

I left a divorce agreement.

Before leaving, I sent a final message to my son: "Don't worry, you won't have such a terrible mother anymore."

I placed the divorce agreement, along with the thin key in my palm, under a flowerpot outside the villa's garden gate. I took a photo and sent it to Arthur.

The sun beat down relentlessly. Perhaps it was due to excessive sweating. The bandages wrapped around my calves and arms began to seep with blood again.

I booked a train ticket back to the quiet town of Crestwood and turned to leave.

Behind me, the security guard at the wrought-iron gate called out in surprise: "Madam, Mr. Knight and the young master said you could enter once you found the key."

I paused. Without turning back, I said quietly, "No need."

Just before boarding the train, Arthur called. His tone was angry, "Just because you were late, and our son gave you a few math problems, you want a divorce?"

The train station was bustling with people. I stood in a long line, waiting for security check.

The explanation was actually on the tip of my tongue. For instance, on the way back this morning, a sudden torrential downpour had caused a twenty-car pile-up, killing three people instantly. I had narrowly escaped, was told to stay in the hospital for observation, but chose to get bandaged and rush back anyway. We had agreed I'd arrive by ten; I was actually only five minutes late.

But before I could utter a single word, Arthurs furious voice, again, cut through: "It's our son's college entrance celebration, and not a single guest was late, except for you. Evelyn, why do you, as a mother, always have to set the worst example for our son?"

The crowd was noisy and suffocating. I couldn't help but ask, "No one was late except for me?"

After Id spent five hours finding that key, arriving at the celebration villa at three in the afternoon, I saw Laura and her daughter, who were fashionably late, being personally greeted by my son, Craig. He handed one of the two parasols he held to Laura, and shared the other with Lucy. The boys secret feelings were deeply hidden, yet betrayed by the subtle flush on his ears. He didn't even notice me, his mother, standing just a few steps from him outside the gate.

On the phone, Arthur was silent for a long time. After a while, he seemed to become irritated, "Evelyn, what right do you have to compare yourself to Laura and Lucy? Don't forget, all those years ago..."

It was as if the thorn that had been lodged in my heart all these years was pricked again. I gently interrupted him, "So, let's divorce. You marry the wife you want, and give your son the mother and sister he wants."

He almost ground out the words, "You just better not regret it."

It was finally my turn for the security check. I placed my small suitcase on the conveyor belt. My voice, as I spoke, was calm, "I won't regret it." Then I hung up, put away my phone, and boarded the train.

This city, where I had lived for fifteen years, was now, and forever, irrelevant to me.

It was almost midnight when I got off the train. On the street of the county town, my dad's truck was already waiting. As I stepped out of the station, I saw him waving from afar, his face crinkled with a smile. "Dear, over here."

I walked over, and he kept glancing behind me. When Craig was little, he used to insist on coming with me whenever I returned to Crestwood to see my dad. But as he grew older and began to understand what the Knight family said, he became increasingly distant from me. Now he was fourteen; it had been almost six years since he'd been here. My dad's face strained with a smile, before he finally pulled his gaze back. The disappointment in his cloudy eyes was unmistakable.

I didn't explain, and he didn't ask. He opened the back door of the truck. The large cargo compartment was spotlessly clean, with neat bedding laid out. In the corner, Goldie was curled up asleep. Hearing the commotion, it whined twice and got up. The light was dim, and it took a while for it to make me out. Then it suddenly became energetic, happily rushing towards me. I hadn't been back in over half a year, but it was still so affectionate the moment it saw me.

For some reason, I suddenly remembered. Many years ago, Craig used to be this affectionate with me. Every time I rushed home from out of town, the child would run to me, teary-eyed, as if he'd suffered the greatest injustice in the world.

I got into the truck compartment and hugged Goldie. My dad went to the front to drive, reminding me as he went: "There's food and drink in the bag. It's almost two hours until we get home. Try to get some sleep."

The truck slowly drove onto a deserted road. I lay in the compartment, watching the increasingly bright starry sky through the cage. In a trance, it seemed like I was a child again. As if my fifteen years in the city of Oceanside had just been a dream.

Now, the dream should end.

I stayed in Crestwood, taking a teaching position at the village elementary school. I picked up my old paintbrushes again, teaching children how to draw. Away from the Knight family, no one would accuse me of saying: "Painting is a tool to flatter the rich; staying in a poor, remote area is how the incompetent escape reality."

Two months flew by. I finally, gradually, got through the withdrawal symptoms of leaving Arthur and Craig. I no longer woke up in the dead of night, my chest aching so much I couldn't breathe.

Days passed. Until two months later, Arthur called me for the first time. I stared at the phone screen for a long time, finally answering. His voice on the other end was cold and disgusted, as if he had reached his limit: "Evelyn, you won, are you satisfied?"

I stood at the school gate, surrounded by several children, and didn't immediately understand. He scoffed again: "When you're done acting out, come back. Arthur and Craig are both busy, we don't have time for your childish games."

It seemed every time, all my actions, in the eyes of that father and son, were childish and ridiculous tantrums. Just like when Craig was nine, and for the first time, he threw away the snack bag I had brought him. He told me: "Grandma says this kind of thing is junk food for poor people." I was furious and raised my hand at him, but couldn't bring myself to slap him. When I couldn't help but cry, he looked at me calmly and said: "Mom, even first-grade girls in our school don't cry so childishly." Childish, crying.

I pulled myself back, trying to speak calmly: "I remember I made myself clear the day I left."

Arthur's voice became incredulous: "Do you really want a divorce? You'll have to come back to finalize the divorce papers. When will you stop being so impulsive?"

A child tugged at my clothes. I stroked the child's head, then said softly: "I've already fully entrusted the procedures to Mr. Davis, and I've signed what needs to be signed. Mr. Davis said he's already contacted you. If there's nothing else, please don't disturb me."

Some parents had already arrived at the school gate, waiting to sign out their children. I reached out to hang up the phone. But then, a slightly awkward and displeased voice of a boy suddenly came from the other end. With the same coldness as Arthur: "What about me?"

My finger, reaching for the phone screen, suddenly froze. A sharp, stinging pain surged in my chest. After a long pause, I still didn't respond, hanging up the phone.

Regarding Craig's custody, whether I wanted it or not, it would never fall to me. Besides, he was fourteen now, had been admitted to the gifted program at Oceanside's best university, and was almost six feet tall. He possessed intelligence and knowledge far beyond his peers. The Knight family had given him a separate house, the best nanny, and an unlimited black card. He was no longer the child who needed me to raise and care for him.

I hung up the phone. I led the group of children, handing them over one by one to the parents who had signed. As evening approached, heavy rain began to fall, and three children were still not picked up, their parents unreachable. The village was remote; almost all young people worked far away. Those left to care for children were, nine times out of ten, elderly people. Poor memory, unable to use phones, various reasons. Every now and then, children would be left unpicked, forced to walk home alone. But it wasn't safe in the heavy rain. After informing the school, I took the children to my house.

My dad drove the truck to pick us up. Seeing me lead a group of children into the truck, he joked, "Looks like I'm hauling a load of piglets." The children in the truck compartment shrieked with delight, "Grandpa's truck is so cool!" My dad laughed heartily in the front. He liked children; the last time I saw him laugh so happily was when Craig visited him at eight years old.

At home, I had the children take turns showering. Then I dug out Craig's clothes from when he was eight and chose a few sets for the children to wear. These clothes, my dad would wash several times a year. He always thought Craig would come back, and might even wear them.

The children showered and then noisily gathered for dinner. While I was supervising them doing homework in the living room that night, there was a sudden knock at the door. My dad was washing the children's clothes, heard it, and got up, saying, "It's this late, someone picking up their child?"

The door opened. I got up and followed, only to see my dad's back suddenly stiffen. Outside the dimly lit doorway stood Craig. He was completely drenched by the heavy rain, his fringe messy and stuck to his forehead. In fourteen years of privileged life, this was probably his first time looking so disheveled.

My dad's memory was probably still stuck on Craig at eight years old. He stared at the tall figure outside the door, and after a long moment of stunned surprise, he suddenly snapped back to reality: "Oh, it's Craig. My boy, come in, come in!"

Craig raised his foot to step in. I stepped forward, blocking the doorway. "Who told you to come?" Craig's foot, which had crossed the threshold, was abruptly pulled back. The rainwater on the boy's face flowed down to his chin and dripped onto the ground, his expression pale and embarrassed. He looked so pathetic, as if he had truly traveled a thousand miles alone. If I hadn't seen the car lights in the front yard behind him, which had been on but then quickly turned off. He just wasn't used to bowing his head. After a long stalemate, he finally, very unnaturally, managed to say, "I came to see Grandpa."

Even at this moment, he wouldn't call me, wouldn't say a kind word to me. I glanced at my dad: "Dad, it's getting late. Please go rest first, can I talk to him alone?" I had been living here alone for three months now. Although I hadn't explicitly said anything, my dad probably had an idea. He sighed, turned around, and hurried back into the kitchen, packing a portion of rice balls, which he shoved into Craig's arms. Only then did he leave, going upstairs first.

With no one else around, I finally spoke: "You should know, your father and I are getting a divorce." Craig looked down, not at me. He had inherited Arthur's business acumen, always decisive in words and actions. But now the boy's voice was very soft: "Not yet."

I explained to him: "The paperwork is being processed, the outcome won't change." As if trying to suppress some emotion, in the dim light, Craig's palm trembled as he clenched it into a fist. After a long pause, he suddenly looked up, a hint of frustration in his eyes. At this moment, his expression briefly overlapped with that of the little boy, years ago, who used to rush towards me with a face full of grievances.

I heard him speak, with a trace of subtle panic. "Even if you divorce, you still have an obligation to raise me."

It was somewhat laughable. I looked at him calmly in the night. The child I used to have to squat down to talk to face-to-face. Now I had to look up to see his face. I couldn't help but remind him, "You were the one who personally questioned me why a child couldn't choose the mother they liked."

I watched Craig's expression freeze, slowly becoming uneasy and helpless. He was the child I carried for ten months, born after a life-and-death struggle. I had once poured all my love, all my heart and soul into him. Later, he listened to the Knight family, slowly began to distance himself from me, to resent me. I had also tried everything to reconnect with him. Even bowing my head, admitting fault, explaining, trying to reconcile with him. But the result of my years of effort was, a few months ago, at his fourteenth birthday party. At that party, which I had stayed up many nights preparing for over half a month. He stood on stage, holding the microphone, and made his birthday wish. Giving me the greatest humiliation in front of everyone. He said, "I wish I could have a mother who wasn't so terrible."

Not long after that, his college entrance celebration. He knew I had encountered a downpour on my way back. Yet, because I was only five minutes late, he made me solve math problems under the blazing sun for five hours. I looked at the boy in front of me, slowly continuing what I hadn't finished saying: "Regarding that question, I can give you the answer now."

"You can choose the mother you like, and I respect your wishes. I also hope that you no longer appear before me." As the words fell, I reached out to close the door. Just as the door was about to shut, I heard Craigs voice, becoming somewhat agitated and reckless: "I won't leave! Even if you divorce, at my age, I have the right to choose the guardian I want!"

I ignored him. At the last moment before the door closed, I heard him call out "Mom," trembling. His tone actually seemed to carry a hint of humility and pleading. How long had it been since he called me? Too long, I couldn't remember, and it no longer felt important.

I put the children to bed, then returned to my own bedroom. When I walked to the window and pulled back the curtains, the car lights in the front yard were on again. Beside the car, standing in the heavy rain, was Craig. And another person, as I expected, was Arthur. Craig was the Knight familys only heir. The Knight family and Arthur would never let him, a minor, risk coming here alone.

I watched the father and son standing in the heavy rain for a long time. Then my phone screen lit up; Arthur, somewhat exasperated, sent a message: "Evelyn, are you really abandoning your child too? No matter how many grievances there are between us, Craig is innocent. Do you still remember that you are a mother!"

How ironic. When I decided to give up, everyone started reminding me that I was a mother. Yet for so many years, I was "a disgrace" in Craig's words, "a stain" in Arthur's words. In countless accusations and taunts from the Knight elders, I was "unfit to be a wife," "unfit to be a mother."

I didn't reply, put my phone down, and went into the bathroom to wash up. By the time I finished, it was almost midnight. I went to the window to get my phone, and through the windowpane, I saw Arthur and Craig still standing in the heavy rain in the distance. They could have gotten in the car and left, but they insisted on getting drenched. They knew this place; they knew they could see the yard from my bedroom window. They could see the light on in my bedroom, and they probably assumed I would soften.

I took my phone and, without hesitation, closed the curtains, blocking out everything outside. Almost simultaneously, Arthur started calling. I hung up, he called again, endlessly. For so many years, he never seemed to have called me proactively before. For important matters, at most a text message, at most three or five words. Perhaps no matter how annoying I was, I had still lived with them for fifteen years. Suddenly leaving, even a cat or a dog, would still make them a little hard to adapt to for a while.

The phone kept ringing; I intended to turn it off. Arthur sent another message: "Let's talk about the divorce." He called again. This time, I answered. Arthur's awkward voice, mixed with the pouring rain, came through: "Craig has a fever from the rain. Let him come in and take a shower first, and we can talk face-to-face"

I suddenly, for the first time, felt annoyed with him. Quietly, I interrupted him: "Arthur, what exactly do you mean?" There was a long silence. After a while, the man's voice came through, somewhat incoherent: "I truly, truly Craig has a fever from the rain"

I suddenly felt utterly exasperated. Both he and his son were such intelligent people, yet they suddenly insisted on pretending to be oblivious to the simplest questions. I exhausted the last bit of my patience and explained one last time: "Arthur, Craig publicly stated that he wanted to replace me, his terrible mother. Your resentment towards me, claiming I usurped Laura's position, was your intention, and the entire Knight family's intention. Now, as all of you wished, I agree to a divorce. You get a new wife, Craig gets a new mother. Is that clear enough? Do you understand clearly enough?"

The endless sound of rain, and a deathly silence. I dont know how long it lasted, so long that I was about to hang up the phone. Arthur finally spoke, his voice for the first time so at a loss: "Evelyn, I"

It was truly frustrating. I suddenly felt that Arthur was truly repulsive, and Craig was also repulsive. My hand holding the phone trembled uncontrollably. Because of anger, because of resentment, because of incomprehension.

It was their wish, as they wished.

What more did they want, what else could they want?!

My emotions were on the verge of breaking. I interrupted him again: "Finally, let me say it one more time. I have fully entrusted the divorce to Mr. Davis; please direct all matters to him. If you refuse to cooperate, Mr. Davis will also file a divorce lawsuit on my behalf. Regardless, it's over between us."

Just before the call disconnected, two voices, mixed with rain and urgency, came through almost simultaneously. "Evelyn!" "Mom!"

I hung up. Then I blocked and deleted all contact information for Arthur, Craig, and everyone in the Knight family. The grievances I no longer wanted to discuss, let them all end here.