A Line That Cannot Be Crossed
by Huina Zheng
Yan’s phone buzzed at eleven on Saturday night. Her heart sank; calls at this hour were rarely good news and almost always work-related. As a service manager at an overseas education agency in Shenzhen, she knew it usually meant another thorny complaint.
She grabbed her phone and earbuds, tiptoed out of the bedroom, and gave Yong a look, signaling him to stay with their two-year old daughter.
The call connected. The mother on the other end spoke rapidly, her anger practically bursting through the receiver: “I paid you all this money, and this is the kind of service I get?!”
Yan listened patiently, trying to piece together the situation from the rapid-fire, fragmented sentences of the caller’s rant.
“The application consultant never reminded me at all! Now the school’s closed for the holidays. Where am I supposed to get the transcript? If we miss the application deadline, are you going to take responsibility?”
The mother kept firing off complaints, so furious she referred to Ling only by her job title, “application consultant.” Yan frowned. Ling had been in the field for six years and was always meticulous. It was unlikely she had made such a rookie mistake. But Yan didn’t argue. At moments like this, explanations now would only make the client think she was making excuses.
So she listened in silence, twisting her earbud cord around her fingers and rolling her eyes. More than once, she had to stop herself. She understood: intimidation was a weapon. Clients used it to make sure their demands were taken seriously. In the service industry, whoever was louder and more unbearable always got what they wanted. After all, this was customer service.
Half an hour later, the tirade began to subside.
“I understand,” Yan said. “I’ll contact Ling tomorrow morning and get back to you.”
“Tomorrow?” The mother’s voice rose another notch. “No! I need an answer tonight!”
After hanging up, Yan unwrapped a strawberry gummy candy and popped it into her mouth. Eating sugar this late was bad for one’s teeth, but she needed that sweetness to counteract the bitterness lingering on her tongue.
She called Ling. Ling sounded tired but clear: the student’s high school grades had a few blemishes, but the mother was aiming for Hong Kong’s top three universities. Applying with the real transcript offered little chance. The mother had privately contacted the school, asking them to delete or alter the poor grades; the school had refused. Because the mother couldn’t speak English, she had called Ling around ten-thirty that night, offering two thousand yuan as a “thank-you fee” if Ling would produce an altered transcript with an official stamp. Ling had refused.
Two thousand yuan? Was she serious? Did that woman really think someone would commit fraud for that amount? Did she have any idea how serious the consequences could be?
Yan almost found it laughable. She reminded herself: it wasn’t about the money. No amount was worth taking that risk. But what if it were two hundred thousand? She shook the thought away. She must be exhausted to be having such absurd ideas.
However, the picture was clear. The mother was using a complaint as leverage to pressure them into compliance.
Fine. There were always difficult clients. Yan had seen too many who believed money could solve everything.
She called back. “Please refer to Clause Seven on page three of the contract: we do not provide guidance on falsified materials.”
There was a brief silence, then the voice came back sharper: “When we signed, your sales rep promised you’d do everything possible to get my child into the best university! Now what? Do you really think a student with Bs and Cs can get into HKU? Is this your attitude—”
“Universities in Hong Kong scrutinize application materials rigorously,” Yan cut in, keeping her voice steady. “If falsified materials are discovered, even if the student is already in their fourth year, they’ll be expelled.”
“My friend’s child—”
“Are you willing to let your child take that risk? To carry the stain of fraud for life, or even face a prison sentence?”
Silence fell on the other end.
Yan continued: “Last year, a student was sentenced to seventeen weeks in prison for submitting a fake transcript. I understand that you want the best for your child. But your son won a provincial-level math competition. His profile isn’t weak. We’ll do our best to help him apply, but we have to think about his long-term future.”
Yan couldn’t understand. Why did she have to explain something so obvious? Would someone really gamble their child’s future for one admission offer? Maybe, in some parents’ eyes, rules could be bought, and the end justified the means.
By the time the call finally ended, it was nearly one in the morning. Yong handed her a glass of warm water. Yan explained briefly to her husband what had happened and gave a bitter smile. Yes, she would have to keep working in this industry, handling ridiculous complaints, dealing with all kinds of clients. Parents took desperate measures for their children’s future. And she? For the mortgage, for her daughter’s formula, wasn’t she also striving, day after day?
Thirty-five was the career red line. Many companies refused to hire past that age. Yan was thirty-two. If she switched industries now, who would take a chance on her?
She shook her head, shaking off the thoughts. As she climbed into bed, her daughter’s face looked like a perfect apple under the nightlight. In the darkness, Yan whispered to her, “For you, Mom will keep going.”
She repeated it silently. But behind those words lay a heavier truth. It wasn’t just about endurance. It was about holding certain lines, about not sinking too fast into the mud.
Copyright © 2026 by Huina Zheng
