In my previous life, my daughter, Madison, posted a selfie on her social media, using a red scarf—the kind schoolchildren wear—as a tube top.
The caption read. [Out on the streets to make some money tonight!]
The comments were full of praise and emojis.
[Wow, she must be expensive—looks like 8,888 a night!]
[Slay, queen!]
I was so furious I rushed home and confiscated all her electronic devices.
That night, she cried and screamed, threatening to jump off the building.
"You don’t understand me at all! I can’t take the pain of this broken home anymore!"
The neighbors and even the police tried to talk me down. But I knew her too well.
I refused to give in.
After a night of drama, when she realized her threats didn’t work on me, she reluctantly climbed back down from the window.
I thought that, away from the internet, she’d slowly start to change.
But I was wrong.
After I threw her a birthday party, she locked me inside the house, and set it on fire.
I screamed, begged her to let me out, my voice was hoarse from crying. However, she only turned her phone to herself, snapped a selfie, and posted.
[Goodbye, Mom. I’m sailing off tonight.]
In the end, I burned alive, every last hope going up in flames with me.
But when I opened my eyes again—I was back in the day Madison first threatened me with suicide.
This time, when she climbed onto the windowsill and screamed at me for ruining her life, I chose to give in.
A rotten daughter like that?
I didn't want her anymore.
——
"If life gave me a choice, I’d never choose you as my mother!"
As I came back to my senses, her words—sharp as knives—stabbed into my heart once more.
Madison sat on the window ledge, crying her eyes out.
The police and neighbors pleaded again.
"Kids playing with phones is normal! Do you really want to push your child to death over this?"
"Honestly, it’s your fault as a mother. If you'd shown her more love, she wouldn’t be like this."
But unlike my past life, I didn’t cry or try to defend myself.
Because I knew Madison too well.
One compromise would only lead to another.
And every time she didn’t get her way, she’d threaten me with death again.
It’s not that I didn’t care.
I supported her interests. From Victorian dresses, Lolita fashion, cosplay conventions, celebrity fandoms.
I wanted her to have a rich, fulfilling life. Even in a single-parent home, I tried to surround her with love.
But somewhere along the way, something went horribly wrong.
She turned mean, entitled.
All it took was me asking her to eat more vegetables at dinner for her to throw her bowl across the table.
"Are you forcing me?" she snapped.
I was stunned and explained, "I just want you to eat healthier. Being picky might lead to malnutrition."
"I’m done eating!"
She stormed into her room, slamming the door behind her.
"Classic parenting—you win!"
I sat frozen for a long time, thinking maybe she’d been through something I didn’t know.
When I finally calmed down and tried to talk, she held out her palm impatiently.
"Just give me money. Two thousand."
My brows furrowed in confusion. I had just given her allowance two days ago.
Inhaling sharply, I asked gently, "Madison, I just gave you pocket money. What did you spend it on?"
"Why are you asking so many questions? It’s just two thousand, not ten or twenty grand!"
She rolled her eyes and spat, "Ugh, just like they say online—controlling parents ruin everything."
I held my breath, thinking it must be my failure as a parent.
I even took psychology classes to try and understand her better.
But she was like a rotting patch of mud—no matter how I tried to help her up, she only dragged me deeper down.
Until today—when I saw that photo again.
The one where she used a red scarf as a tube top and flaunted it online.
