If You Can Do Better, Prove It Chapter 04
The audience sat in stunned silence, their collective bewilderment etched into the murmurs that followed.
“Why?” someone finally asked.
“Did she really not even make it to the college entrance exams? Not even to university?”
The system displayed Subject One’s dismal physics and chemistry scores, answering their questions.
Truthfully, junior high physics and chemistry-though challenging-were not insurmountable. With enough grit, relentless memorization, and a dash of determination, most students could manage to scrape by. But not Subject One.
How could she? A mother so adept at feigning pity to milk sympathy and resources had never cultivated habits of perseverance, effort, or discipline in herself-let alone her child. Reliance on others was her default, her creed.
When Subject one reached an impasse in her studies, she didn’t push through dr seek solutions. She simply gave up. It was what her mother’s instincts, projected onto her, dictated.
And where were the encouraging teachers or friends to pull her back from the brink? There were none. Subject One had no
friends.
The system began rolling footage from my own junior high years, drawing a stark contrast. I was not like Subject One.
Pride was my armor. When the wealthier parent who gave me a monthly allowance of a hundred dollars for food approached, I didn’t just accept their charity for nothing-I scrubbed their child’s classroom in return.
I was poor, painfully so. Yet I understood the kindness of teachers and classmates, and I did my best to repay their generosity. Cleaning toilets they avoided? That was me.
Gratitude shaped my relationships, and slowly, friends emerged from the cracks of my struggle.
When physics and chemistry stumped me, I didn’t give up. My friends lent their support, helping me navigate the labyrinth of
formulas and theories.
By the time of the high school entrance exams, my scores in those dreaded subjects far outpaced Subject One’s.
On the judgment platform, my mother stirred, breaking free from her stunned trance. “Impossible! This has to be a mistake!” she blurted out, her voice trembling.
But the system continued to roll my memories, indifferent to her protests.
In high school, my grades hovered around the lower middle range. I won’t deny it-I wasn’t mentally strong enough to focus solely on academics. Poverty seeps into every corner of your life, poisoning even the simplest moments.
Imagine this: Before gym class had even begun, I was already dreading the scorn of a teacher mocking my threadbare, broken shoes. Winter hadn’t yet arrived, but I was preoccupied with the thought of freezing through the season without a proper coat.
Every day began and ended with the gnawing anxiety of how to scrape together enough money for food. That’s the reality of poverty.
And yet, while I wrestled with these daily humiliations, my mother was busy turning my plight into a lucrative enterprise. She siphoned sympathy from every available source, painting herself as a sacrificial parent.
Faced with the system’s unflinching playback, my mother stammered, trying to justify herself. “It’s just a way to make money! At least I didn’t send her to work in a factory as child labor! I let her go to school. Isn’t that good enough?”
The audience wasn’t buying it. Their boos rained down, drowning her out.
The footage rolled on, relentless.
When it came time for university, I got into an average school with an average program. Nothing prestigious, but I had earned my place there.
I rejected my mother’s suggestion to attend an arts college as I saw through her intentions. She wanted to sell me off for a higher price tag.
When I refused to play her game any longer, she laid down her ultimatum. “Then earn the same amount of money I would have!
I didn’t take the bait. “I can’t,” I replied simply.
The audience pieced it together, their whispers coalescing into a collective epiphany.
“Oh, so that’s what ‘not studying hard enough to change her fate’ really means.”
“That old lady’s been sugarcoating her actions this entire time!”
“If she’d treated her child even a little better, maybe this wouldn’t have backfired so spectacularly.”
My mother’s bravado crumbled. She trembled in shock.
I stared at her, my voice calm but cutting. “So now you know. Even if you were the one subjected to your own treatment, you couldn’t survive it.”
She broke down in tears.
The system, unfeeling as ever, muted her cries.
Then, it announced: (After the third and final round of judgment, termination will proceed collectively.]
I felt a hollowness settle in my chest as I listened.
The system’s voice rang out again. [Next. Who will step forward?]
My husband, Damion Carpenter, looked visibly shaken. “If I experience Adeline’s life,” he began, “will I be subjected to similar interpersonal relationships? Including her mother?”
Damion’s voice rose, indignant. “That’s not fair! Everyone saw how difficult her mother was, constantly demanding money!”
I didn’t say a word, watching as the cracks in his composure deepened.
The system replied in its merciless tone: [If you think it’s unfair, you may begin at your wife’s birth. Alternatively, I recommend starting from the point of your marriage.)
Damion darted frantic looks around the room, desperation mounting. Finally, he asked, “Can I withdraw? I don’t want to judge her anymore.”
I smirked at his cowardice.
The system answered: [That decision requires your wife’s consent. As a victor of this round, she may choose to forfeit one trial.]
Our son, Sean Carpenter, remained frozen, wide-eyed and uncomprehending.
Damion turned to me, pleading. “Honey, let’s just move on. I won’t judge you anymore. I swear we’ll live a good life from now on.”
The audience erupted in scorn, mocking his lack of courage.
Ignoring him, I fixed my gaze on Sean. “My dear son, this will be the last time I call you ‘son.’ Admit you were wrong, and I’ll let you forfeit.”
