“Emma, have you been happy at the activity center lately?”
His eyes flickered for a moment before he gave me a bright smile.
“Yes! Everyone’s been really nice to me.”
“Oh, and we have a race today. I want to cheer for my best friend!”
Seeing the sparkle in his eyes, I couldn’t say no.
I crouched down and held out my pinky.
“Then promise me this: after today, I’ll transfer you to a better activity center, okay?”
Emma hooked his little finger with mine without hesitation.
After breakfast, I personally dropped him off.
Only after confirming with the staff several times did I finally head home.
But I couldn’t settle down. Even during my nap I felt restless, my eyelid twitching nonstop.
During my afternoon video call with the client, the sense of dread became unbearable.
I got up during a break to pour myself some water using the matching mother-and-son water bottle set Emma and I shared.
But as I was pouring, my hand suddenly trembled.
Crash!
The cup shattered on the floor, shards slicing across my foot, blood welling up instantly.
Staring at the pieces scattered across the floor, my chest tightened.
An indescribable wave of panic flooded through me.
A mother knows. Something was wrong.
My hands shook as I grabbed my phone and opened the app linked to Emma’s heart monitor.
When the data loaded, my breath caught.
His heart rate was at 163 beats per minute—and climbing!
My mind went blank.
I snatched up my car keys and bolted for the door, dialing the teacher’s number as I ran.
No answer.
I tried the supervisor’s phone.
Powered off.
A cold fear drenched me from head to toe.
I floored the gas, blew through several red lights, and raced toward the private activity center on the outskirts of the city.
When I arrived, I searched every classroom and usual activity area.
No sign of Emma.
Finally, I spotted a security guard patrolling the grounds.
I rushed over, grabbed his arm, and blurted out:
“Sir, where did the kids and teachers go?
My son is sick—I got a call from the teacher!”
The guard, seeing how frantic I was, pointed me toward the gymnasium.
I thanked him and ran.
But when I reached the sports area, the gate was locked.
Two unfamiliar men stood guard, yellow caution tape strung up behind them.
“Sorry, ma’am. There’s a private closed training session going on. No one’s allowed inside.”
“Private training? I’m a parent! My son is in there! He has a heart condition—let me in or he could die!”
My voice was shaking as I tried to push past them.
One man shoved me back.
“Rules are rules. If you keep this up, don’t blame us for getting rough.”
A surge of fury overrode my fear.
I spotted a lower section of the fence nearby, scrambled up using some boxes as a foothold, and leapt over as the men shouted behind me.
I sprinted toward the sports field.
The closer I got, the louder the noise—cheering, barking, and faint sobs.
At the entrance to the field, I ran straight into Ms. Collins, the class supervisor.
Her face flickered with panic before she plastered on a fake smile.
“Mrs. Foster, what are you doing here?”
“There’s a closed training session going on. You can’t go in.”
I glared at her, my voice cold.
“Where is my son?”
“He has a heart condition. If anything happens to him today, you’ll pay for it!”
Ms. Collins feigned confusion.
“What are you talking about? I know Emma can’t do strenuous activities—I told him to rest in the nap room.”
She reached for my arm, but I yanked free and kept running.
“Mrs. Foster! You’ll disrupt the other children!”
Her tone sharpened, threatening.
“Think about Emma’s reputation—he still has to make friends here!”
I spun around, all the fear and rage inside me boiling over.
My palm cracked across her face.
“If my son gets hurt, none of you will get away with this!”
Ms. Collins stood frozen, clutching her cheek.
I broke free and rushed toward the crowd gathered near the center of the field, craning my neck to see.
The sight made my blood run cold.
In the middle of the field, a temporary circular pen had been set up.
Inside, a massive Rottweiler was chasing Emma, barking furiously.
My son’s face was ghostly pale, his lips turning blue.
His little legs were stumbling, barely holding him upright.
Sweat soaked his clothes, and his tiny chest heaved as he tried to keep running.
The adults surrounding the pen weren’t stopping it.
They were clapping, laughing, recording videos on their phones—like it was a circus show.
“Run faster, kid! Don’t get caught!”
“Look how brave he is! Mrs. Brown’s method really works!”
“You never know your limits until you push yourself—face your fear!”
Even some kids joined in, chanting:
“Let’s bet how long Emma can last! Whoever wins treats everyone to snacks tomorrow!”
The parents actually started placing bets.
“Ten minutes—$10k!”
“Five minutes—$20k!”
“I say he’ll last until the end—$50k!”
Within seconds, the pot had reached half a million dollars.
Emma’s breathing was ragged, tears and sweat mixing on his face, pure terror in his eyes.
He was on the verge of collapse.
“Emma!!”
I screamed, my voice tearing through the air, and charged forward.
But before I could take two steps, a heavy force slammed into me from behind, knocking me to the ground.
Pain shot up my knee as it hit the hard ground.
When I looked back, I recognized her—Mrs. Brown, the wealthy socialite who had stirred up trouble in the chat group.
Her heavy body pinned me down, her face twisted in a triumphant sneer.
“Why are you running? Let your son train! We’re doing this for his own good!”
She sneered, digging her nails deeper into my skin until I almost cried out.
Emma saw me pinned down and began sobbing, his voice breaking.
“Mom!”
“Mom, help me… I… I can’t breathe…”
His steps faltered, and he nearly fell. The Rottweiler lunged closer, its snapping jaws drawing a cheer from the crowd.
I struggled with all my strength, but the woman holding me down was stronger.
Mrs. Brown stood, her expensive stiletto heel grinding down onto the back of my hand.
She twisted it cruelly, a smirk curling her lips.
“Mrs. Foster, I warned you in the Parent Group Chat, didn’t I?”
“I told you to discipline your son. You wouldn’t listen. Now look where we are. Too late to regret it.”
The pain shot up my arm, but it was nothing compared to the agony tearing through my chest.
Tears slid down my face.
“Mrs. Brown, I was wrong. I was foolish. Please, let Emma go. He just had heart surgery three months ago—his heart could stop at any moment!”
Ms. Collins stepped forward, her cheek still red from my slap, and spoke solemnly as if she were the voice of reason.
“Mrs. Foster, you don’t have to worry. The Browns own a major sports and medical equipment company—they know better than we do!”
“This is to unlock Emma’s physical potential, push him past his limits! It’s science—there’s no harm, only benefit!”
The other teachers and parents nodded along, smiling like this was perfectly reasonable.
“Exactly, Mrs. Foster. Your son is lucky to get such an opportunity!”
“Who knows, if he pushes himself hard enough, maybe his heart will heal on its own. You should be thanking Mrs. Brown!”
“If your kid refuses to exercise, he’ll ruin the sense of team spirit for all our kids. Then what? Our kids’ bright futures get destroyed because of him? Who takes responsibility for that?”
I stared at their shameless faces and finally understood.
This was Mrs. Brown’s trap from the very beginning.
Emma, terrified for me, kept running through tears, his gaze locked on me, begging for help.
Some of the betting parents began shouting when they saw him slowing down.
“Run, you little brat! I’ve got $10k on this!”
“If he drops, bring in a bigger dog! This Rottweiler’s useless!”
Mrs. Brown let out a sinister laugh.
“No need for that. His mom’s right here.”
“Hold her down. Everyone move aside. I want her to see this clearly.”
The crowd parted, and Emma and I locked eyes.
The Rottweiler was almost on him now, its barking deafening.
Every step he took looked like torture, like he was being flayed alive with every breath.
Mrs. Brown crouched down, grabbed my jaw roughly, and yanked open the top two buttons of my shirt.
Then she slapped me across the face, hard.
Smack!
Emma froze, horrified.
“Stop! Don’t hurt my mom!”
Mrs. Brown laughed cruelly and called out to him:
“Emma! If you don’t want Mommy to get hit again, run faster!”
“The faster you run, the fewer slaps she gets. Understand?”
“Yes! I’ll run! Just don’t hurt my mom!”
