Slandered and Vindicated
The first time I heard Dame (No) misunderstood in a T City's Pub was on that winter night when I was video calling my mother.
The warm yellow light in the Pub wrapped around the scent of sake, the wooden tables and chairs polished smooth from use, while the beckoning cat figurine hanging on the wall gently swayed.
When the customers at the next table waved their hands to refuse the staff's offer of a refill, one casually uttered "Dame (No)", the voice soft but like a needle piercing straight into the mother's ear on the other end of the phone.
Mother, who had been rambling on about trivial matters at home, suddenly leaned close to the phone screen as if burned by the word, her facial wrinkles instantly twisting into a tight knot.
Her voice was sharp and urgent, piercing my eardrums through the receiver: "Stella, tell Mom the truth. Are you filming those kinds of videos over there? Everyone who often hears that word is said to be an indecent woman..."
My knuckles went white the moment I gripped the phone, the cold metal pressing painfully into my palm.
The guests behind me were already shooting displeased glances this way; some frowned slightly, while others paused with chopsticks in hand, clearly disturbed by Mother's loud voice.
"Mom, I'm working part-time. I'm just chatting with customers at the Pub." I lowered my voice to explain, trying to keep it calm, but the anger inside me was already rising.
No sooner had I finished speaking than Mother's roar pierced the receiver, making my ears ring: "I heard everything, and you're still lying! You insist on running off to J Country to study, as if there are no good schools here! I told you again and again, but you never listened. Now you've even learned to make up lies to me!"
The murmurs around grew louder, some whispering in J Language with eyes full of curiosity and scrutiny.
I felt my cheeks burning, my hand trembled as I held the phone, and I could only hastily end the video call.
Just as the screen went dark, it was flooded with dozens of voice messages — even without listening, I knew they were all full of biting insults and accusations.
I stared at the input box for a long time, my finger hovering over the screen before finally typing: "If, in your eyes, I am that kind of person, then let's cut off ties."
The moment the message was sent, the Pub's noren was flung open by the cold wind outside, a chill creeping up from my ankles that made me shiver.
I suddenly remembered the winter when I was fifteen, just as cold as this, when she cried out in front of the neighbors, accusing me of "stealing money from home to play games," her voice loud enough to echo through half the hallway.
No one knew that day she lost the last of Father's savings playing mahjong. Afraid of being chased by debt collectors, she was the one who smeared dirt on me.
That day, I hid in my room, listening to the neighbors' gossip, wrapped in blankets, crying all night.
From that moment on, I knew that in her eyes, I was never truly her daughter—only a tool to cover up her own mistakes.
Before the morning class began the next day, at dawn's first light, sporadic snowflakes still drifted through the streets of T City.
I walked into the teaching building with my backpack, and just as I sat down at my desk, I saw my mother blocking the classroom door, clutching a faded suitcase.
Her hair was a tangled mess, her eyes swollen and red like walnuts, her face still weary from the journey. But the moment she saw me, she stormed in like a madwoman, her voice sharp as shattered glass scraping a blackboard: "How can you not even recognize your own mother just for the sake of filming? I flew here overnight just to save you, you shameless daughter!"
The air in the classroom froze instantly.
The classmates packing up their books stopped moving, those who had been chatting quietly fell silent, and all eyes turned toward me and Mother.
Several classmates from C Country exchanged ambiguous glances, and someone immediately exaggerated in J Language while translating for the nearby classmates from J Country, deliberately emphasizing words like "shooting videos" and "shameless."
Those gazes felt like needles stabbing into my back—filled with contempt, curiosity, and blatant lechery.
I took a deep breath, gripped the hem of my clothes tightly, and tried to steady my trembling voice: "Mom, I told you yesterday—the voices in the video are from the Pub customers, and 'Dame (No)' is just a common way to refuse, not what you think it is."
"Is the guest going to keep crying 'Dame (No)' and 'Yamete (Stop it)' all the time?" She suddenly cut me off, her voice loud enough for the whole classroom to hear, even carrying into the hallway.
Behind me, a chorus of imitations broke out; someone deliberately strained their voice to mimic 'Yamete (Stop it),' accompanied by low chuckles.
I gripped the hem of my clothes so tightly that my nails almost pierced my palm, the pain numbing my fingertips. "Only one guest said it once yesterday, and I can show you the bank transfer records—every penny earned through my part-time job; not a single cent came from anywhere shady."
These words are meant not only for my mother but also for those who enjoy watching the chaos unfold.
I know the power of rumors all too well — back in high school, she merely told other parents at the school gate that I was "seducing a married teacher," and that was enough to have me ostracized by the entire class for half a year.
During that time, no one wanted to speak to me. My textbooks were covered with insulting drawings, and in the end, even the homeroom teacher who wanted to help me was forced to transfer out.
But my mother only sneered coldly, the corners of her lips curling into a mocking smile, as if I were an incurable liar: "You've been lying nonstop since you were little—stealing money, bullying classmates, seducing others. Now doing this kind of thing in J Country, I'm not surprised at all! You have bad blood running through you, just like your heartless father!"
Those past memories I buried deep in my heart were dug up by her like rotting garbage and thrown into the sunlight in front of everyone.
I looked at her self-righteous face and suddenly remembered the day Father left home.
It was the same back then; she sat on the floor, crying out that Father had 'abandoned his wife and daughter,' accusing him of having another woman, yet she never mentioned that she took Father's salary card to the casino, lost it all, and ended up drowning in debt.
That day, Father crouched by the door, his eyes red, wanting to hug me, but she shoved him away.
She spent the entire afternoon yelling at Father, pointing a finger straight at his nose. In the end, Father could only leave forlornly, dragging his suitcase behind him. Before he left, he looked back at me, his eyes filled with guilt.
That was the last time I saw Father. After that, he vanished as if into thin air and never contacted me again.
"Mom, stop it. This is a classroom, it's not appropriate. I'll go with you to find a hotel first." I reached out to grab her suitcase. Just as my fingertips touched the handle, she suddenly collapsed to the floor and burst into tears.
Her cries were sharp and heart-wrenching, causing more passing classmates to stop and press against the classroom door, peering inside.
"Your father left when you were little. I raised you alone, endured so much hardship and countless cold stares. For you, I never remarried and worked day and night. And now you treat me like this! Have you lost your conscience?"
A few classmates from C Country immediately gathered around, patting her back to comfort her while rolling their eyes at me.
Someone whispered softly, "Even if Mom is wrong, you can't talk to her like that."
Someone even said, "Maybe what her mother said is true; otherwise, why would she be so upset?"
I stood there, staring at her distorted, tear-streaked face, suddenly feeling how absurd it all was.
The 'never remarried' she spoke of was because whenever someone pursued her, she would drive them away, accusing them of wanting her house. The so-called 'working day and night' was just her collecting rent from the two old houses Grandfather left behind, while actually spending every day, from morning till night, at the mahjong parlor, never coming home.
But these truths, I couldn't bring myself to speak out loud.
In everyone's eyes, she is a hard-working single mother, and I am the ungrateful bad daughter.
Just like in middle school, she ran to the school and claimed my friend "led me astray to steal money," even storming into my friend's house; from then on, no one dared come near me.
Now, she has traveled thousands of miles all the way to J Country, trying to destroy the peaceful life I've fought so hard to build.
"Ma'am, could there be some misunderstanding here?" A gentle voice suddenly broke the chaos in the classroom.
I looked up and saw Henry Jones — our school's teaching assistant, also a person from C Country.
He had just finished his early class, still holding the lesson plan he hadn't had time to put down. Seeing the situation in the classroom, he immediately came over and stood in front of me.
Mother, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, suddenly jumped up from the floor and, pointing at Henry Jones's nose, shouted, "Are you having an affair with my daughter? Or are you the one encouraging her to make those videos? You young people, why are your minds so twisted!"
"Ms., Henry Jones isn't that kind of person!" Several international students who had been helped by Henry quickly protested.
Previously, a classmate had a family emergency and couldn't pay his tuition; Henry Jones helped him apply for a scholarship. There was also someone whose J Language was poor, and Henry Jones took time every night to tutor him.
Mother's eyes shifted, and her tone changed again: "He must have others! Otherwise, how could a young girl, all alone and helpless in J Country, live so freely? She must have sold her body! Otherwise, where else would she get the money for tuition and rent?"
Those who had just been comforting her immediately stepped back two paces, afraid of getting caught up in her.
Someone quietly moved to the classroom door, pretending to look at the scenery, while others lowered their heads to play with their phones, pretending not to hear.
I watched their evasive glances, a cold smile rising in my heart—I should have been used to it long ago. Ever since I can remember, everyone has kept me at arm's length. Whenever my mother made a scene, they would immediately side with her, as if she were naturally meant to be pitied.
Henry Jones's expression darkened, and his tone grew serious: "Ms., you can't spread rumors without evidence. Even abroad, you must obey the law." Stella Lynn is an outstanding student at our college. Her grades have always been excellent, and she frequently participates in volunteer activities. You have no right to slander her like this.
"What right does a stinking pimp like you have to speak to me?" Mother slapped her thigh and shouted, her voice echoing through the classroom. "Since she went abroad, I haven't given her a single penny. If she's surviving here, isn't she just making films? Do you think money falls from the sky?"
Those previously doubtful looks once again turned into contempt.
I looked at Henry Jones's helpless expression and suddenly felt a chill run through me—I realized that no matter where I fled, I couldn't escape the hell she had set for me.
Even if I ran thousands of miles away to J Country, even if I worked hard at part-time jobs and studied diligently, she could still easily ruin my reputation and trap me in a desperate situation.
"Stella Lynn, our school takes students' conduct very seriously." The girl who had just comforted my mother suddenly spoke up. Her name was Lisa Lee; she studies the same major as me, and we occasionally attend classes together. "If the school finds out you're doing that kind of part-time job, they will definitely expel you. Then, not only will you fail to get your diploma, but no one back home will dare to hire you."
My mother's eyes instantly lit up as if she had grasped a lifeline.
Her gaze swept over my entire body before finally settling on my neck. Suddenly, she rushed over excitedly, "What's that red mark on your neck? Were you hit by someone?"
Before I could react, she yanked open my collar.
The sound of fabric tearing was particularly harsh in the quiet classroom. A twisted scar stretched from my neck to my shoulder, like an ugly red centipede, exposed for everyone to see.
"Look! This is proof she was beaten for taking those photos! Aren't women who do those things all like this? Bullied but too scared to speak up!" She grabbed my collar, the rhinestones on her manicured nails digging into my skin, making me gasp in pain.
I lowered my gaze, choking back tears, my voice heavy with exhaustion and despair: "Do you forget how these wounds came to be?"
I was seventeen that year. She had entangled herself with a married man, and when his wife found out, she showed up at our door brandishing a knife.
I was in the living room doing homework when I heard shouting at the door. Just as I reached to open it and see what was happening, I saw the woman charging at Mother with a knife raised.
Without hesitation, I threw myself forward to shield her.
The blade sliced across my neck and shoulder, blood pouring onto the floor.
I was rushed to the hospital for emergency treatment, nearly losing my life from severe bleeding.
But I lay in the hospital for three days, and she only came to see me once—and that was with that man by her side.
After I was discharged, I found out that on the night I was taken to the hospital with severe bleeding, she had gone to a hotel with that man, completely ignoring whether I lived or died.
"What exactly do you want?" I struggled fiercely to break free from her grip, expressionless as I pulled my clothes back up, trying my best to hide that ugly scar.
Mother pointed at Henry Jones, her voice laced with threat: "I'm going to report you both to the principal and get you expelled! You two wretched couple—don't think you can live peacefully in J Country!"
"Enough!" I finally couldn't hold it in and shouted, my voice shaking with years of suppressed anger. "Don't drag innocent people into this. If you have a problem with me, take it out on me! Henry Jones was just trying to help me—don't involve him!"
Mother, however, wore the smile of a victor, a smug curve lifting the corner of her mouth: "Then why don't you just quit school and come back with me? Otherwise, you'll only get worse! Come back with me—I can still find you a factory job, marry an honest man—better than doing shameful things here!"
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