The Scholarship Girl Framed My Son,So I Played the Footage

On enrollment day, a fragile, pitiful-looking freshman girl begged my son to carry her suitcase up to her dorm on the sixth floor.

In my last life, I'd taught my son to be kind, to help others, and I told him to lend her a hand.

The moment he set the luggage down, she ran straight to the dean's office, weeping as she accused my son of trying to assault her in a blind corner of the stairwell.

The day the disciplinary notice went out, my son's title as the state's top science scorer became a punchline for the whole internet to mock.

He couldn't bear the tidal wave of slut-shaming and abuse, and he threw himself off the roof of the academic building.

My husband's hair went white in a single night, and on his way to demand answers from the school, he died in a car accident.

But she, wearing the badge of a "disadvantaged victim," collected four years of a full scholarship and was fast-tracked into graduate school.

While giving a speech as the alumni representative, she looked straight down at me, my face streaming with tears, and gave a faint smile.

"Ma'am, some kinds of pain are just stepping stones on the road to growth, aren't they?"

Reborn into this life, the junior girl pointed at that enormous suitcase, her eyes brimming.

"Ma'am, I really can't lift it. Please, could I trouble him to help me?"

I held my son's hand, my face blank.

"Oh, carrying luggage? You can pay the security guard at the entrance fifty dollars to do it."

"..."

Layla Pruitt froze.

She clearly hadn't expected me to turn her down so flatly.

"Ma'am..."

"My family's poor. After paying tuition I have nothing left to live on. Fifty dollars is a whole week of meals for me."

She raised a hand and wiped away a tear.

"I didn't mean to be a burden. But I'm all by myself..."

The crying carried, sharp and piercing, and the crowd around us gathered in at once.

A boy in a designer short-sleeve stepped forward, frowning at me.

"Ma'am, isn't that a little cold-blooded? We're all classmates here. What's the harm in a guy helping a girl carry her bag?"

An older woman beside him chimed in.

"Exactly. Look how upset you've made this poor girl. You people, all dressed up so nice, and you don't have an ounce of sympathy?"

"Rich folks these days. Just selfish, that's what."

The accusations came from every direction.

Layla kept her head down, her shoulders shaking harder.

Christian Dickerson took a step forward, about to speak.

I raised my hand to stop him and looked at the boy in the designer clothes.

"You think she's pitiful?"

The boy puffed out his chest. "Of course! Helping the disadvantaged is basic decency."

I nodded.

"Fine. Then you carry it up to the sixth floor for her."

The boy hesitated, glanced at that massive suitcase, and his expression turned stiff.

"I just finished playing ball, my wrist hurts. Besides, she asked your son, not me."

I smiled and turned to the older woman.

"Ma'am, since your heart's overflowing with sympathy, why don't you cover the fifty dollars to hire the guard for her? Fifty dollars to buy yourself a saint's reputation. Quite a bargain."

The woman's face went rigid, and she took a step back.

"Are you out of your mind? She's nothing to me. Why on earth would I pay for her?"

The crowd went quiet.

I turned back to Layla.

"Did you hear that? Everyone feels so sorry for you, but nobody wants to lift a finger, and nobody wants to spend a dime."

Her face cycled through green and white.

"Ma'am, why are you humiliating me like this? So what if I'm poor?"

I stared into her eyes, spacing out every word.

"Being poor makes you right?"

"You're poor, so the whole world should step aside for you? You're poor, so other people's time and energy are yours to freeload off of?"

"My son is the top science scorer, not free labor."

"Christian, let's go."