Chapter 70

### The Story of Grandmother

My mother was a strict person.

"Hilda, how many times do I have to tell you? Your bow is too shallow."

As the only daughter of a duke, I endured my mother's hysterical words, which she called "manners," every day. Even after I had learned all the proper etiquette, she would still scrutinize my every move, especially focusing on the angle of my bow.

My father held a high position in the country and was rarely home, and the servants couldn't help me. Thus, every day, I lived alone with my mother.

I never questioned anything and simply endured my mother's hysteria. Time passed, and I eventually reached the age to attend school.

All my classes were chosen by my mother, and I only took courses that would make me a good wife.

I met my mentor during my third year in the advanced etiquette class.

No matter how hard I tried, I could never bow at the angle my mother approved of, yet I managed to advance to the advanced level.

"Teacher, I always get the angle of my bow wrong. My mother always scolds me..."

Ms. Anne gently pushed my long bangs behind my ear and taught me kindly.

"The most important thing in manners is to consider the other person and avoid making them uncomfortable, Hilda. However, people are different. Some may find a certain bow beautiful, while others may think it insufficient. Even the same person might feel differently depending on their mood that day."

My mother was exactly like that.

In the morning, she would scold me for a shallow bow. At night, if I bowed deeper than in the morning, she would scold me for bowing too deeply. The next morning, if I bowed at the same angle as the previous day, she would again scold me for bowing too deeply. I had a vague sense that this had been going on for years, but I couldn't argue with my mother. I could only wait silently for her hysteria to pass.

"Why can't you do what you're told? What a useless child. If you just listened to me, you would know that you need to have proper manners to be noticed by a good man."

She believed she was right.

The attacks of someone who believes they are right and sees others as wrong are merciless. Even if they were truly right, did I really need to be beaten down so thoroughly?

Ms. Anne also taught me how to protect my heart.

She had me practice different angles of bows in front of a mirror, using a protractor to measure and find the most beautiful angle.

"Hilda, you are tall, so when you bow deeply, it looks a bit exaggerated when you stand up. So, this angle is the best. From now on, set the angles for your nod, bow, and deep bow to this. If your mother still criticizes you, let's verify it again. If her criticisms are inconsistent, stick to this angle without changing it."

It was the first time someone had suggested that my mother might be wrong.

The servants in the house and my father, who rarely came home, all followed my mother's words. They believed it was the quickest way to end her hysteria.

Realizing that my mother's constant shouting never reached anyone, I began to feel sorry for her.

Every day, I bowed at the same angle.

Every day, my mother's criticisms were different.

Once I was confident that I could bow properly, I felt lighter and more confident. With Ms. Anne's help, I measured and determined the most beautiful angles for all my movements.

Before I knew it, the empty classroom where Ms. Anne and I practiced had gained more and more companions.

There were many young ladies who, like me, were suffering, even if they didn't know it. For some, it was their father, for others, a governess or a lady of the house where they were learning etiquette. They all shared the same struggles.

Height, weight, face size, neck length, shoulder width—everyone is different.

Finding the most beautiful angle for each person.

A standard was born from something that had always been vague.

If I mastered these angles, no matter how much I was criticized, I could protect my heart.

This led to confidence, which in turn made me more attractive.

For me, etiquette became a weapon to protect myself.

I married, had children, and as they grew, I measured their angles and gave them this weapon.

Especially my youngest, Mersa, who was intelligent and quickly mastered etiquette and found her own angles.

Mersa chose courses in mathematics, physics, monster studies, and economics, which were considered difficult and were said to be impossible for young ladies.

Despite being called a tomboy and warned that standing out would lead to trouble, Mersa excelled.

"Why does a lady who is so strict about manners let her daughter do as she pleases?"

In a male-dominated noble society, there were those who asked such heartless questions.

However, Mersa had mastered etiquette early on. I had given her the weapon to protect herself. So, it was fine for her to do as she pleased.

"Just because a woman is smarter than a man doesn't mean she has bad manners."

I had become much stronger.

Time passed, and by the time my grandchildren came along, people were less concerned with etiquette. The trend was to love rather than to strictly discipline.

I was just starting to think about passing my title to my son and retiring when my youngest daughter, Mersa, brought her daughter, Emma, to see me.

"Mother, please train this child. Be as strict as possible, no, be extremely strict."

Mersa had married into a border territory, and I met my granddaughter for the first time a few weeks ago when they moved to the capital.

Emma was wearing a veil because of a scar on her face.

The three siblings had good manners, though not the best, considering they grew up in a remote area.

"Mersa, calm down. What's wrong...!!!"

That day, Emma wasn't wearing a veil.

The scar on her right cheek was severe and did not match her otherwise lovely face. Her eyes, which looked up at me timidly, were a different color from her siblings—green.

A pale, translucent, mesmerizing green.

The color of the Saurivon Duke's family.

When our eyes met, she smiled softly. Unlike Mersa and Leonardo, she had a gentle, soft, and delicate face. She was small and slender, looking younger and more vulnerable than her actual age. The scar would likely remain even as she grew.

"Understood. Emma, for the next month, come to my house after school. I'll prepare a carriage for you."

This child needs to be given a weapon.

If she has to live with this scar.

I will give her the strongest weapon I have.

It might be a bit strict.

But.

I want to provide her with as much protection as possible so that she doesn't get hurt.

The retirement of the etiquette demon will have to wait a bit longer.

Emma's eyes are the color of the Saurivon Duke's family.

This rare color is difficult to inherit, so only Hilda, her son, Mersa, and Emma have it.

Mersa is the youngest of 12 siblings.