Chapter 1

My mother had severe OCD about cleanliness.

To prevent urine from splashing on the toilet seat.

As a boy, I was forced from a young age to sit down when using the bathroom.

Until that day in the school restroom, when I stood in front of the urinal with my face flushed red, I discovered that suddenly I couldn't pee standing up anymore.

I trembled all over in panic, and in the end, I couldn't release a single drop. It all ended up in my pants instead.

I sobbed in shame.

When my mother arrived with a cold expression on her face, she let out a sigh.

"Ernest, you've disappointed me so much."

"You made such a mess of yourself just going to the bathroom. You're no longer a clean child."

Seeing the disgust in my mother's eyes, I felt like I was suffocating from grief.

My mother had said that she would only love clean children.

I thought, if I just wash myself clean, she won't hate me anymore, right?

I looked at that expression of revulsion in my mother's eyes, my heart aching.

I knew she was disgusted by me.

That was the same look she had whenever she saw something dirty—brows furrowed, corners of her mouth turned down.

But Mom, I'm not a dirty thing, I'm your son!

Panicking, I reached out my hand, trying to grab hers.

I wanted to tell her I'd wash myself clean right away, that I wouldn't stay dirty.

"Mom."

My fingers had just touched her sleeve.

My mother jerked back as if she'd been electrocuted, yanking her arm away forcefully.

I staggered back two steps, my back hitting the hallway wall, the back of my head bumping against it. The pain made my eyes sting.

But I didn't cry, because I saw my mother lower her head, staring at the spot on her sleeve that I had touched.

She pulled a wet wipe from her bag and started cleaning it.

She wiped it four times before folding the wipe neatly and throwing it in the nearby trash can.

I looked down at my own fingers.

They were wet, carrying the smell of urine.

I slowly curled my fingers inward, clenching them into a small fist and stuffing it into my pocket.

I wouldn't reach out anymore.

There was no one who wanted to hold my hand anyway.

Ms. Levitt had been standing to the side watching. Now she crouched down, took off her jacket, and wrapped it around my wet pants.

She put her arm around my shoulders, saying softly.

"It's okay, Ernest. I wet my pants when I was little too. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

But when my mother saw Ms. Levitt hugging me, she immediately walked over.

She smiled, bent down, and used two fingers to pinch a corner of Ms. Levitt's jacket, removing it from my body.

"Ms. Levitt, he's dirty. Don't let him soil your clothes."

She said it with a smile, her tone incredibly gentle.

Ms. Levitt stood up, her expression darkening.

She looked at my mother, then at me.

"He's only six years old. Wetting his pants is normal."

"What he needs right now is comfort, not disgust."

I thought my mother would get angry.

But she spoke calmly and deliberately.

"Ms. Levitt, I understand your feelings. But as an educator, you should be aware that the formation of behavioral habits before age six is a critical period."

"Unconditionally accepting children at this stage is equivalent to indulgence. Children without rules will only have worse boundaries as they grow up."

"This is basic educational knowledge."

Ms. Levitt opened her mouth but couldn't find the words to respond.

Several parents who had come to pick up their children nearby stopped and began whispering.

"What this mom is saying does make sense."

"Yeah, you really can't spoil kids too much these days."

"She's doing it for the child's own good."

I stood in the corner, listening to these words, feeling like the whole world was telling me: Mom is right, being dirty is bad.

I lowered my head and sniffed myself. It smelled terrible.

I said quietly.

"I'll go wash myself clean, then Mom won't be angry."

No one heard me.

Behind me, my mother was still discussing educational philosophies with Ms. Levitt.

I turned and walked along the wall of the hallway, step by step toward the stairwell.

My pants were wet, and as I walked, the fabric stuck to my legs, cold and clammy.

When I turned at the stairwell, I looked back. My mother wasn't looking at me.

It didn't matter. Once I washed myself clean, she would look at me.