My daughter is four years old. At the mall sandpit, a boy snatched her shovel three times in a row. The boy's mother sat nearby, scrolling through her phone the whole time, not lifting her eyes.

On the fourth attempt, the boy came to snatch it again, and my daughter directly handed him the shovel. The boy took it and continued to dig in the sand. His mother finally looked up, glanced at me, then lowered her head again.
I stood up, walked over, took the bucket from my daughter's hands, and poured all the millet into the sandpit. Then I returned the empty bucket and shovel to the toy table. The mother was stunned: "What are you doing?"
I said, "It's none of your business, and it's none of mine. But the bucket is mine, I need to take it back."
Her face turned bright red as she snatched the shovel from her son's hand and smashed it into the sandpit. The boy wailed loudly, and she dragged him out. As she passed by me, she threw a sentence: "You're going to teach your daughter to be bad."
I looked at her: "My daughter just gave your son the shovel. You haven't even said thank you to her until now."
She clenched her son's arm, opened her mouth but didn't speak. My daughter picked up the shovel from the sandpit, ran to the exit, and handed it to the boy: "This is for you. Your mom doesn't let you play, but you can come and play by yourself in the future."
The boy's crying suddenly stopped. His mother looked like she was nailed to the spot.
All the parents in the sandpit were secretly glancing over. I squatted down to put my daughter's shoes on. She suddenly asked, "Mom, can that big brother come to play by himself in the future?"
I said yes. She asked again, "Then who will pick him up?"
I didn't answer.
She lowered her head, fastened her shoelaces, and walked past the boy. When passing the suggestion box, she gently tucked the small shovel onto the mailbox—not fully inserted, but not falling off either.
And you? When facing a bear parent, do you endure, or do you put the shovel in a place everyone can see?