The Diary's Truth

I stood at the entrance of Starlight Kindergarten with Marty. The autumn sunshine was so warm it almost blinded me. Marty clutched my clothes quietly, saying she wanted to eat the cotton candy by the door. When I turned around, a little boy in a blue jacket was strangling Marty's neck, spitting on her face: "B*stard! Your mom is crazy!" Marty's face flushed bright red, her small hands weakly clutching the boy's wrist. I stepped forward quickly, my fingers gripping the boy's arm with just enough strength to make him loosen his hold. "Let go." My voice was calm, without a hint of emotion. The boy was startled by me, took two steps back, stretched out his neck, and shouted, "My dad is Gene Donovan! How dare you hit me?" The name Gene Donovan stabbed into my heart like a sudden needle. I looked up and saw the man standing not far away. Six years had passed since we last met. He had shed some of his youthful awkwardness, dressed sharply in a suit, standing tall—but the coldness in his eyes remained unchanged. Gene Donovan also saw me; his pupils suddenly contracted, and his footsteps froze on the spot. "Mind your own kid." I withdrew my gaze, crouching down to rub Marty's neck, which was already flushed red. Gene walked over and grabbed the boy named Randal, his tone tense but barely noticeable: "Randal, apologize." "I won't!" Randal struggled free from his grasp. "Dad, her daughter provoked me first!" "Marty never starts trouble on her own." I stood up and looked Gene Donovan straight in the eyes. "Mr. Donovan, I have two demands." "First, transfer your son to another school. I don't want Marty to see him again. Second, compensate us one hundred million as mental damages and medical expenses for my daughter." Gene Donovan furrowed his brows. "Farina, are you asking for the impossible?" "What you owed me six years ago, settling it now with a hundred million is actually cheap." I tugged at the corner of my mouth, revealing a cold smile. "Besides, your son almost strangled my daughter. This amount is hardly too much." His gaze fell on Marty, complicated and probing: "How old is she?" "Five." I deliberately avoided his eyes and adjusted Marty's backpack straps. "Five..." Gene Donovan repeated the number, his voice hoarse. "Farina, is she..." "No." I cut him off firmly, "Mr. Donovan, don't flatter yourself. My daughter has nothing to do with you." As I spoke, I took a black-covered diary from my bag and deliberately placed it on the bench beside me. "I'm giving you three days. Transfer the money to my account, or I won't hesitate to let everyone know that Mr. Donovan's son bullies his classmates in kindergarten." I picked up Marty and turned to leave. In the rearview mirror, I saw Gene Donovan bend down to pick up that diary, and instinctively, he took two steps chasing after me. The car drove away from the kindergarten. Marty leaned against me and whispered, "Mom, who is that man?" I gripped the steering wheel tight, my knuckles white, a sickly-sweet taste rising in my throat. "An insignificant person." Tears finally broke free, sliding down her cheek and splashing onto the steering wheel, leaving a small patch of wetness. Six years, Gene Donovan, it's time to settle our accounts.