The Teacher’s Daughter

At the ceremony where my mother, Helena Marlow, received the Best Homeroom Teacher award, the parents wept with gratitude. They praised her for nurturing the students successfully without ever resorting to harsh discipline, and for helping them all to excellent results.

But no one knew that the path to their children’s success had been paved by Mom, using me as a warning to others.

When someone in the class stole money, cheated on an exam, or got into a romantic relationship, I was the one punished.

During the ceremony, the principal, Ms. Wanda Ambrose, stepped onto the stage to present her award.

She asked, “Ms. Marlow, you have so many outstanding students in your class. Which student are you most proud of?”

Mom smiled with quiet pride.

“They are all like my own children. I love every one of them.”

Then she let out a small sigh.

“Except for my daughter. She alone fails to live up to expectations and disappoints me every time.”

Laughter and applause rose from the audience below the stage. They nodded in understanding and praised her for being so modest.

I drifted to her side and looked at the satisfied curve of her lips before speaking softly.

“Don’t worry, Mom. From now on, I won’t disappoint you anymore.”

My mom, Helena Marlow, had two faces.

With her students, she was always gentle and patient.

If a student caught a cold, she brewed ginger soup and brought it to school.

If a student’s grades began to slip, she sacrificed her own rest time to tutor them.

Even when a student made a mistake, she only spoke softly and reasoned with them, reluctant to utter even a single harsh word.

But with me, she treated me as nothing more than a tool for disciplining her students.

I heard someone in the audience call out, “Ms. Marlow, you’re the pillar of reassurance for us parents!”

Mom’s smile grew wider, pride shining in her eyes.

Suddenly, I remembered a morning half a year ago—one just as blinding with sunlight.

She had pressed a crumpled fifty-dollar note into my hand, patted my head, and spoke with a rare note of affection in her voice.

“Evie, go buy yourself something nice to eat. I have a class meeting today.”

At the time, I had foolishly clutched the money, believing that Mom loved me.

But when the class bell rang, Mom walked into the classroom with a face as cold as ice.

She slammed her lesson plan onto her table and said coldly, “Fifty dollars from the class fund we collected yesterday is missing.”

The class was completely silent at the news.

I sat by the window, absentmindedly rubbing the fifty-dollar note in my pocket, an uneasy feeling stirring in my chest.

“Whoever took it, stand up and admit it.”

Mom’s frosty gaze swept across the class.

No one spoke.

“No one wants to admit it?” she sneered.

“Then we’ll search the bags.”

She did it herself, starting from the first row and checking each bag.

My heart pounded faster and faster until she stopped in front of my desk.

When her fingers touched the zipper of my schoolbag, I saw the PE leader, Jasper Hawke, seated behind me, shudder and lower his head even further.

Back then, I didn’t understand.

I could only watch as Mom pulled from the inner pocket of my bag the fifty-dollar note I had crumpled so tightly it had grown soft.

“Well, well, Evie.”

Her voice suddenly rose, thick with incredulous disappointment.

“So you were the one who stole it.

“I thought you were a sensible child…I never expected you to be disgraceful!”

I froze, and tears surged up at once.

“Mom, you were the one who gave me that—”

“I gave it to you?” she cut me off, her eyes fierce.

“When have I ever given you money? The class fund just went missing, and suddenly you have fifty dollars in your pocket.

“Are you still trying to argue with me?”