Waiting for the Devil to Grow: A Mother's Decade-Long Pursuit of Justice

My daughter was only one year and eight months old when she was killed, with not a single bone in her body left intact.

The suspect was a minor, just 8 years old, and was not sentenced. Instead, he was protected. I spent ten years waiting for him to grow up.

1

My name was Mia Bennett. Despite my hair being completely white, I was only 34 years old.

No one knew how I had survived those ten years.

I was born in a small village and had to leave school after middle school due to family circumstances. At 18, my father, Jack Bennett, sent me to a family in a neighboring village to be a wife.

There was a strange local custom that required a son to be born before a wedding could be registered. The man was more than ten years older than me. He got drunk every day. Most people in the village had gone out to work as migrant workers, but he didn't go and didn't allow me to go either. We stayed with his parents and worked for the local farmer together, and life was really hard for us.

I wasn't afraid of hardship, having endured it since childhood. I wasn't afraid of being beaten either, having been hit often as a child.

The following year, I gave birth to a daughter, and my mother-in-law, Lisa Bennett, began to beat and scold me. Perhaps due to complications from the first childbirth, I never conceived again.

My husband, Anthony Bennett, grew to despise me, beating me mercilessly each time. In a moment of desperation, and being young and impulsive, I did something I regret for life-I fled my home, leaving my daughter behind.

I knew it was my fault, but I had only a little over a dollar on me, and even feeding myself was a challenge. I truly had no way to take her with me. My plan was to settle down outside, become self-sufficient. And then I would bring my daughter out.

2

For the next three years, I wandered and worked, taking on the hardest and most exhausting jobs due to my lack of education, earning the lowest wages. In this way, I was quite satisfied. I didn't have to worry about being beaten even in my dreams, and no one scolded me every day. I was happy even though I was poor.

However, I still couldn't afford to bring my daughter out. I scrimped and saved, managing to put aside a small amount of money, and didn't dare visit a hospital when sick. This was my hope. Saving even a dime brought me closer to my daughter.

Fearing being dragged back, I never contacted anyone from my hometown and hid from familiar faces.

3

Meeting my cousin, Cindy Smith, was unexpected.

I was washing dishes in a restaurant when the drain clogged. Carrying a basin of dirty water from the kitchen to dump in the garden area, I splashed some on her as she passed by. She cursed immediately.

Hearing the familiar dialect startled me so much I nearly dropped the basin. Our eyes met, and we recognized each other instantly.

I turned to run, but she lunged at me, hugging me tightly and bursting into tears.

"Monica is in trouble!"

"Quick, tell me, what's wrong with Monica? Is she sick?" My throat felt choked, and I could only hope for the best.

"Monica is dead."

When I heard those four words, I felt my body sink as if hit by a heavy blow, and the world around me started to blur. My mood instantly shattered.

4

Monica was thrown to death.

Every bone in her body was shattered, except for her head. She was thrown dozens of times, and the suspect wouldn't speak, so it was only speculation. Each time she was thrown, her head was wrapped, and only her body hit the ground. This meant she endured all the pain while conscious.

The suspect was an 8-year-old boy named Alex Hardy, and no one could do anything about him.

"Your husband took money from his family, and the matter was settled. But in my heart, it isn't over. Such a good child! There must be justice in this world!"

I felt as if I were bound tightly, pierced by countless arrows, unable to dodge or escape, watching helplessly.

How painful must it have been for every bone to be shattered?

I couldn't imagine. I remembered once breaking a finger and crying from the pain. How did my Monica endure it?

5

Cindy told me the course of events.

Alex was 8 years old, and his mother, Eva Hardy, was the only university graduate from the village, making a name for herself outside and becoming wealthy. This time, the family of three came back to escape the summer heat, which gave an impression of a sort of triumphant return.

They were honored guests in the village. That day, the village women played cards with her, and Monica's grandmother went to watch.

After I left, Monica was carelessly looked after, given food only when someone remembered.

So many people heard Monica crying that day, but no one checked.

It wasn't until the card game ended and Monica's grandmother returned home, finding the house too quiet, that she discovered a bundle on the broken bed mat.

The cloth was familiar, a piece of cloth so filthy its original color was lost, used as a curtain at the kitchen door.

Curious about the bundle's contents, she untied it, took one look, and screamed before fainting.

Coincidentally, a police officer handling matters in the area rushed over upon hearing the news and immediately reported the case.

Alex's family attempted to flee, but their car was intercepted on a rural road.

6

Alex was tall and thin, with a pale face, refusing to say a word. From various testimonies and deductions, Monica was repeatedly thrown from the second floor of a barn to her death.

The ground was flagstone, stained with blood.

At 8 years old, Alex couldn't be held responsible. His mother compensated Anthony with a sum of money. They were glad to get a good price for a worthless life, and the matter was over.

7

My world had been turned upside down. Monica's death took away my last bit of hope.

The people I shared a rental with gradually returned, having heard about the incident, whispering about how tragic it was.

For three days and nights, I cried until I had no tears left. I sat up and drank a bowl of cereal someone left for me.

I had to live. The person who hurt Monica was still out there. I couldn't give up.

When I walked out of the rental, everyone who saw me looked terrified. They had never seen someone whose hair turned white overnight.

8

Before leaving, Cindy left me only the name of a city.

Alex's family was powerful. They moved away from the original city as quickly as possible. The boy was protected and given a new name.

For someone like me, finding them seemed impossible, but I had no choice. I was Monica's mother.

I believed I would find him. I would dedicate my life to this, even if I had to find him in a crowd.

That year, I was 23.

I realized that to avenge my daughter, I first had to become strong. To become strong, I needed to educate myself. With my current knowledge, I could do nothing. Even if I found the culprit, I might not be able to harm him.

I moved to that city and started working as a nanny. Because I found that being a nanny helped me connect with the local community and understand the situation better. Whenever I had free time, I would immerse myself in books, reading everything I could get my hands on with a voracious appetite. No one understood why a nanny would work so hard.

9

In the ninth year since I arrived in this city, I had taken advantage of my job as a postpartum caregiver to visit all districts and several nearby towns.

Being a postpartum caregiver was a carefully chosen profession for me. It allowed me to move between employers' homes and change families frequently without arousing suspicion.

Yet, in these nine years, I hadn't found a trace of him.

I couldn't believe he had disappeared without a trace.

10

In the eighth year, I switched careers. I stopped being a postpartum caregiver and became a part-time cook. Although being a postpartum caregiver allowed me to visit many families quickly, my broad search strategy wasn't yielding results. I needed a new approach.

I moved to the area of the city's best high school, calculating that he would be in high school by now.

For some reason, I had a gut feeling Eva was a strong-willed woman who would ensure he attended a prestigious school.

There were over a dozen middle schools in the city, with several being prestigious schools, but there was only one top high school.

With 2, 200 first-year middle school students, he should be among them.

11

Thanks to my good reputation, many people sought my services, and I selectively took on two jobs.

One was with the family of the school's dean, who had a son about to graduate from this school. I needed to prepare meals in advance for the dean to take to his son. I had my eye on the job convenience of the dean. He was a shortcut if I wanted to get access to the school's information.

The other job was with a first-year middle school student, a talkative and cheerful child, which made it easy to gather information.

I never expected a clue to come my way so quickly.

One day at noon, after finishing cooking, I chatted with the parent for a bit.

She mentioned that with fresh vegetables in season, I should try more variety.

I casually replied, "Gotcha."

The child, who was eating, suddenly burst into laughter.

The parent glared at the child angrily.

"I just remembered when Isaac Hardy first went on stage to receive an award, he also said, 'Gotcha!' I didn't mean to laugh at you, Auntie!" The child explained, blushing.

My heart raced, and I could barely stand.

That "Gotcha" was a local dialect from my hometown. Could the Isaac he mentioned be the one I was searching for?

"Isaac? The senior you admire the most? He's about to take the college entrance exam, right?" The parent asked curiously.

The child replied. "Yes! He aced the recent practice exams again."

Their conversation reached my ears word for word.

I bent down, pretending to tidy up the trash, ready to leave, but my hands trembled so much I could barely hold anything.

After the child finished eating and returned to their room, I had to leave the house. The information was scant, but it was better than nothing.

It turned out I had misjudged; no wonder I couldn't find him. He was two grades above what I had expected. It seemed Monica was helping me from the beyond. Otherwise, if he graduated and left, I would have no way to find him.

12

The next day was Saturday, and both the dean and his child were home. I came over to cook as usual.

Today, I put extra effort into it, preparing four dishes that were visually appealing and delicious.

When the dean came out of his room, the table was already set.

"Thank you, Mia. I can handle it myself." The dean said, a bit embarrassed.

I seized the opportunity to mention that I was a bit short on cash lately and could take on cleaning duties. The dean readily agreed, trusting me more than anyone else.

This way, I found a chance to enter his study. I believed that computer held the information I needed.

Over the years, I had learned how to use a computer. Time was tight, and I had to take a risk.

The records of graduating students had already been entered and archived. There were three students named Isaac, and I didn't know which one the classmate had mentioned, so I had to check each one.

One Isaac's information caught my attention. He started school two months late.

There was no transfer information, just a two-month delay in starting school. The timing coincided with the two months after Monica's death. He later skipped two grades.

I calmly shut down the computer. Now I could proceed to the next step.

13

I visited all the local agencies, leaving information that I was looking for part-time work. Whether Isaac's family would come looking depended on my luck.

Heaven rewards the diligent; his mother, Eva Hardy, did come.

The agency quietly informed me that this family was difficult to please, and no part-time worker had lasted more than a month.

When Eva saw me, she seemed satisfied and took me home to cook a meal as a trial.

I spent over an hour in the kitchen, preparing the meal.

Just then, the doorbell rang, and I heard the sound of a mother and son talking at the door.

I couldn't resist going out.

Standing at the door was a tall, handsome boy, over six feet tall, slender, with sharp features, looking very sunny.

This was completely different from what I had imagined, and I stood there, stunned.

"What are you staring at?" Eva glared at me after I stared for too long.

"I... I've never seen such a good-looking kid." I quickly covered up.

Eva didn't seem to mind. Perhaps my rustic look as someone from the countryside made her lower her guard.

I hurried back to the kitchen, my legs weak and barely able to stand.

For some reason, I felt he was the one I was looking for.

But something was off. Wasn't I searching for a demon?

Over the past ten years, I had imagined countless times what I would do when I saw my enemy-pounce on him, tear him apart, even drinking his blood wouldn't quench my hatred.

But this sunny boy in front of me overturned my perception, and I began to doubt myself.

14

After working at Isaac's home for a week, I grew even more doubtful of my judgment.

Isaac was outstanding, not only excelling academically but also possessing many talents. He was talented in violin, piano, baseball, and even won swimming medals.

Yet, according to the information, he was the one I was looking for.

What was going on?

Could I have mistaken him for someone else?

Isaac loved the food I cooked and called me Aunt Mia.

Compared to Eva's harsh arrogance and Jerald Hardy, Isaac's father, whose indifference was quite obvious, Isaac was the warmest person in the household.

He often thanked me and complimented my cooking.

I was in a state of hesitation and pain every day.

Because of my excellent work, I gained the family's approval, and Eva suggested I become their live-in nanny.