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.

In a fit of rage, I confiscated all of her electronic devices.

Madison went berserk in her bedroom, screaming hysterically. Finally, she threw open the window and shouted that she was going to jump—that her death would be my fault.

“Mom! If you really hated me this much, you should’ve strangled me the day I was born! Why raise me just to torture me every day?”

“Either give me back my phone and tablet right now, or I’ll give this life back to you!”

She made a show of climbing onto the windowsill, threatening to jump.

Neighbors and the police looked on in panic, practically begging me with their eyes to just give in—to say yes.

But if they looked closely, they would see her knuckles gripping the window frame so tightly they turned white.

She was terrified of falling.

As I stared at her, the image of the soft, sweet little girl who once hugged me and whispered “I love you, Mommy”—

And the manic, screaming Madison in front of me—they overlapped.

I let out a long breath and said calmly, “Madison, from today on, I won’t control you anymore.”

The drama ended.

Madison cradled her phone and tablet like priceless treasures, feeling victorious. Thinking she won.

With smug pride, she slammed her bedroom door shut.

Moments later, I heard the sounds of her game blaring from the room.

“Damn, you really jumped?”

“Of course I did! That old hag was terrified! First shot fired in the war against toxic parenting!”

I sat on the couch in silence, scanning the house.

In the corner, scratch marks marked every centimeter of her growth.

The living room wall was covered in her certificates and awards.

On the coffee table sat her pink princess cup—still half full.

In my last life, a single fire turned everything to ash. Including all the hope I had ever placed in her.

I didn’t sleep that night. I had just submitted my job transfer request when I received a message from her homeroom teacher, asking me to come to school.

“Ms. Martinez, just look at this—does this look normal to you?”

Her exam paper was filled top to bottom with the same five words.

[Asher Morgan, return to glory.]

I vaguely remember the name—it was a gaming streamer who was banned for inappropriate remarks.

“And that’s not all,” the teacher continued, exasperated.

“She’s frequently late on purpose, disrupting class. We really can’t handle her anymore. Take her home and give her a proper lesson.”

Madison slouched against the wall, smirking through the lecture.

“Looks like they’re ‘broken and defensive,’ huh?” she muttered, mocking the teacher with online slang.

That crushing sense of helplessness tightened around my chest.

I apologized sincerely to the teacher and brought her home.

The moment we stepped inside, she shouted, “Mom, just get me a withdrawal form. I’m done with school.”

“If you’re not going to school, then what will you do?” I asked.

She shrugged, unbothered. “Be a livestreamer, obviously. Say a few sweet words, call some guys ‘brother,’ and they’ll start sending yachts and rockets. I can earn tens of thousands in one night.”

She shot me a look full of disdain and continued, “Better than waking up early and working your butt off every day for a few measly bucks like you do.”

Her tone grew increasingly resentful. “Seriously, I can’t believe this. Some people are born rich—New York elites, kids from affluent families. And me? I was born without a dad, and my mom sells houses for a living.”

“If I had the choice, I’d rather be a dog in a rich family than a daughter in a poor one.”

I stayed silent for a long time.

For the first time, I wondered if Madison’s personality was something deeper—maybe even genetic.

Her father married me because of my dowry. He put on a perfect act until I gave birth.

Then he changed completely.

He stopped working, stayed home all day playing games, and eventually, I caught him in bed with his mistress—right in our bedroom.

I couldn’t bear the thought of raising my child with a man like that. So I gave up most of our shared assets, took Madison, and left.

I became a single mother.

All these years, I worked myself to the bone for her.

I saved enough for her to have a home of her own. I built up a savings account with hundreds of thousands in it.

Everything—everything—was for her.

I tried my best to give her a safety net in life.

And in the end, she grew up to be just like her father—opportunistic, ungrateful, and heartless.

“I’ll process your school withdrawal,” I said calmly. “If you ever regret it, at least the option to go back will still be there.”

Madison’s eyes lit up instantly.

“Really?” She stared at me in disbelief. “You’re seriously agreeing to it?”

I nodded. “I told you yesterday—I won’t interfere with your life anymore. Do whatever you want.”

Whatever uncertainty she felt was quickly drowned in the thrill of skipping school.

“Just wait,” she said proudly. “Once I make it big as a streamer, the family genealogy will need a whole new page just for me.”

From that day forward, Madison became increasingly reckless.

She livestreamed from home, battled others online for “PK” wins, and kept the house noisy until 3 or 4 a.m. most nights.

The neighbors filed complaints, and soon called the police.

However, nothing worked—she was belligerent and shameless, never afraid of anyone.

I was beyond exhausted. I started coming home only once every few days.

One evening, I opened the door and saw Madison filming a video with some tattooed punk.

My face darkened uncontrollably.

“Mom... Why are you home?” she stuttered.

I swallowed my anger, but in the end, I couldn’t hold back.

“Madison, since when can just anyone walk into our home? Do you even care about self-respect? You’re still just a kid!”

The faint guilt in her eyes disappeared in an instant.

Annoyed, she snapped back, “Here we go again—classic parental control issues.”

She raised her wrist and showed off a bra strap tied like a bracelet.

“He’s not just anyone. He’s my boyfriend. This is our token of love.”

I clenched my fists. I nearly slapped her right then and there.

“You’re still too young to get involved in—”

“Ahh! Mom! Are you trying to force me to kill myself again?!”

Before I could finish, she shrieked at the top of her lungs.

Then, from her pocket, she pulled out a small knife and pointed it at her own wrist.

Her eyes were wide, her face twisted in fury.

My throat closed up. I couldn’t get a single word out.

“Move! Why are you blocking the door? You smell like old people!”

She shoved past me and stormed out with that deranged punk in tow.

In my hand, I was still holding the newly approved job transfer form.

I’d come home today to tell her that I’d accepted a new position—one that involved frequent travel.

I wouldn’t be home often and wanted to let her know she’d have to start taking care of herself.

Now it seemed pointless.

I packed my things and left her a note.

[I’ll continue transferring your monthly allowance to your account. That’s all you’ll get—no more.]

For the next two months, things were quiet.

But then Madison started asking for more money. Constantly.

Text messages, phone calls, even pestering her grandparents.

Eventually, I had no choice but to block all her contact methods.

Then one day, an old colleague called me repeatedly, followed by a stream of urgent texts and a livestream link.

“Emily, you need to see this—Is this your daughter?!”

I tapped on the link.

There she was—Madison.

But not the way I remember.

She wore a school uniform. No makeup. Her expression was innocent, almost sweet—like the well-behaved girl she used to be.

But the words coming out of her mouth were lies.

“My mom abandoned me. I only started livestreaming to survive.”

“I’ve never met my dad. Grandma told me it’s because Mom wouldn’t let him see me. I’ve never felt a father’s love...”

“She wouldn’t let me go to school either, and said girls are a waste of money. I haven’t even had a full meal in days... Please, everyone, help me...”

Her eyes filled with tears as she repeated her fabricated lines.

The livestream comments exploded with outrage.

[She gave birth but didn’t raise her—what kind of mother is this?]

[Total scum. A disgrace to society.]