Disaster doesn't need to be sought out. It shows up all on its own.
One
I was savoring my cappuccino when I heard CRASH, THUMP THUMP THUMP!, followed by a piercing scream. I reacted immediately.
React first, think later. It wasn't the first time I'd been criticized or warned about this. Whenever there was a crisis—any situation that needed immediate handling—I was always the first one to jump in. I didn't care if people called me Miss Disaster, Harbinger of Doom, or Jinx Magnet. That was a problem for later.
My eyes scanned the area, and I quickly found the cause. In the children's play area, a little girl who looked about three was crying loudly. It didn't take long to figure out why. Two boys around five or six—brothers, I guessed—were laughing at the poor kid while occasionally throwing balls at her.
Where were these kids' parents? I couldn't see them anywhere. The girl's crying wasn't attracting anyone's attention, either. I stomped onto the battlefield, planted my hands on my hips, and shouted, “HEY!”
The little delinquents didn't even turn around. They just laughed wickedly and kept pelting the girl.
“Crybaby!” they taunted. “Ugly little Crybaby!”
The little girl's sobs grew even more pitiful. I picked her up and patted her back. The two boys stared at me in shock.
“Bothering other people isn't nice, kids,” I said in my most authoritative voice. Damn, you little brats—rather than being scared, they stuck out their tongues and flipped me off. “THAT'S RUDE!” I yelled, getting even angrier. Since they kept laughing and holding up their middle fingers, I took a picture of them with my phone as evidence, then bellowed, “WHO ARE THESE KIDS' PARENTS? Teach your kids some manners, or I will!”
For a moment, I could feel the entire place go completely silent. The kids seemed to realize I was serious and stood frozen. Even the child in my arms went quiet. It wasn't long before a ferocious-looking woman stomped toward me, her eyebrows the kind that, in the Chinese dramas I watched, definitely meant she was sadistic.
“They're my children. Is there a problem?” she asked, crossing her arms. She was a woman in her thirties, maybe ten centimeters taller than me—possibly thanks to the heels of her shoes. Her makeup was flawless, as if she'd just come from a salon. Her outfit was spectacular. A knee-length plum satin dress that would probably have been more appropriate for high school girls (my age!) at prom, leather boots, and a pink leather bag. To top it all off, a scarf in a color combination that hurt my eyes decorated her neck. Honestly, it took me a while to process her highly unusual appearance.
“I saw your children behaving rudely, ma'am. They bothered this child by making fun of her and throwing baseball-sized plastic balls at her”—I pointed at the balls those unruly kids were now tossing away from themselves—“until she cried. When I tried to advise them, they weren't sorry at all. Instead, they flipped me off…”
“That’s not what happened, Mom! That bitch is lying!” said the older little ifrit demon.
“Yeah, yeah, she’s lying!” added little ifrit demon number two.
“How dare you accuse my children? You ignorant, brainless woman! Your child is the one who's messed up, and now she's accusing someone else's child!”
Ugh, textbook victim-blaming. The little girl clung even tighter to my body, probably frightened by that crazy woman. No wonder the woman assumed she was my child. Well, I wasn't about to correct her, even though I was a little offended. Did I really look that old—old enough to have a child this age? I was only seventeen, for crying out loud!
“I have proof, ma'am! I took a picture of your children making those obscene gestures. Do you want me to post it on social media?” I waved my phone, displaying the kids' rude poses. “Maybe if it went viral, they'd realize bullying is wrong.”
The woman gasped, her face turning tomato red. I wouldn't have been surprised if she started breathing fire.
While I had the upper hand, I pressed on. “Apologize! To me and to this child. Apologize and promise you won't do it again! Apologize, and teach your children better so they grow up to be polite and respectful of others!”
I honestly hadn't expected the woman to do it. At first, I thought she'd hurl more insults at me, then storm away with long strides. But even though she stumbled over her words, she did apologize and made her children do the same.
The kids were still glaring, their feet scraping at the floor like bulls ready to charge. Well, this was good enough for now. Maybe there was still hope for them in the future.
Great. Now the ice in my cappuccino had definitely melted, my clothes were soaked with this toddler's tears and snot, and oh my God, where were this child's parents?
I wanted to start cursing, but then the child looked at me. Her clear eyes seized my heart, and just like that, I fell in love. Her hair was slightly wavy and cut in a bob, her tiny nose was red, her upper lip formed a cupid's bow, and her cheeks were flushed, probably from crying. Maybe other people would have thought she was ordinary, but to me, she was the sweetest, cutest child in the whole world.
“Mama?” the child asked, and my heart felt as if someone had squeezed it. Oh God, I didn't have much experience with little kids. Did all little kids call older women “Mama”? Was I supposed to be offended? How old did I look to her? Did little kids even have a concept of age?