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.]

[Who has got her mom’s address? I’ll go over there and curse her out myself!]

The comments were unbearable—filthy, furious, vicious.

My hands trembled with rage as I pulled Madison out of my blocklist and messaged her.

[Madison, what nonsense are you spouting? I transfer you two thousand dollars every month. How could you possibly be starving?]

She replied almost instantly.

I could practically picture the smug grin on her face through the screen.

[That petty cash? I already spent it.]

[And whose fault is that for not giving me more?]

[I’m warning you—if you don’t transfer me one hundred thousand dollars right now, I’ll keep streaming tomorrow.]

Without hesitation, I refused.

Just as I expected, she started streaming again. This time, she made it even more pitiful.

She showed her “life of hardship,” eating nothing but plain rice porridge, arms covered in what looked like self-harm scars.

She even wrote a caption, [Little fish, swim away—freedom is in every direction.]

The internet exploded.

She shot straight into the top ten trending topics.

Overnight, she became a national symbol of suffering.

[Sweetheart, don’t cry—we’ll crowdfund your living expenses. Just drop your payment QR code.]

[What kind of heartless mother does this? Does anyone want to go teach her a lesson? I can’t take it anymore!]

Donations flooded in.

And Madison wasn’t the only one who caught the scent of money.

Her biological father, Luca—the man who had never once lifted a finger for her—he smelled an opportunity too.

Just a couple of days later, he popped into her livestream with a dramatic “reunion” scene.

[Madison, if your mother hadn’t kept you from me all these years, I would’ve been there for you. I promise I'll make up for all the love you’ve never had.]

[Don’t worry. From now on, your dad will never let you suffer again.]

Madison’s eyes were filled with tears.

She bowed deeply to the camera. “I finally have a family. Thank you, Dad... and thank you to all the kind souls who care about me.”

The performance sealed the public’s verdict—I was an evil, heartless mother who had abandoned her child.

[This woman is worse than an animal! We support the dad getting full custody!]

[Her dad is so handsome! The daughter finally has someone to rely on!]

The moment the stream ended, I got another message from Madison.

[Do you know how much I made tonight? Two hundred thousand dollars in just one night!]

[And now that I have a dad, I don’t need you anymore.]

I stared at the screen, feeling numb.

I hadn’t expected her web of lies to spin this far. But things only got worse—her drama spilled over to my parents.

I got a phone call from their neighbor.

I was shaking so badly, I could barely hold the phone.

When I rushed back to their house, I saw from a distance the front door was covered in red paint.

Funeral wreaths leaned against the wall, sheets of paper with black characters cursed my entire family to die.

My mother was kneeling in the doorway, scrubbing at the mess with a rag.

“Mom...” My throat tightened, and tears welled up.

I couldn’t get the words out.

She turned to look at me, her expression was calm, and gently consoled me instead.

“Emily, don’t take it to heart. We’ve been through worse over the years—this is nothing.”

My father sighed. “Madison, that girl... she’s hopeless. Just like her father.”

When I’d transferred jobs earlier, I told my parents everything about Madison.

They never once blamed me. They only felt sorry that I’d given my heart to the wrong person.

They even said maybe we should never have kept that child to begin with.

They have done nothing wrong, but they were the ones who suffered the most.

I clenched my fists so tightly that my nails dug into my skin.

That night, I had the nightmare again—the one from my past life.

I watched myself burn to death. And in that final moment before the flames consumed me, Madison stood there smiling, holding up her phone.

“Everyone, don’t forget to like the stream—tonight’s content: burning my mom alive.”

I jolted awake, drenched in sweat.

My pillow was soaked.

The screen of my phone lit up.

A new post from Madison’s social feed had just gone live

[To have a mother who gives birth but not one who raises you—that is true freedom!]

Attached was a photo of me and Madison, torn in half.

My heart sank.

I quietly registered a new account.

Then I gathered over ten years’ worth of receipts and records from raising Madison, and posted my very first video.

[A rotten daughter should’ve been thrown away long ago.]