After the Rebirth, I Disowned My Daughter
After starting her job, my daughter earned her first significant paycheck. She bought a brand tie for her father and expensive health supplements for her grandparents. Even her aunt, who had married far away, received a gold necklace.
I thought I could also get a gift from her, but she snorted, “You are the cause of my childhood pain. Why should I give you something?”
My husband, instead of disciplining her, belittled me. “You treated her strictly when she was young. Do you think she will forget what you have done? You expect her to be filial to you, huh?”
My daughter took the whole family on a vacation but left me alone at home. One night, due to old wiring in the house, a fire broke out while I was sleeping. I died in the blaze.
My family took the compensation money from my death to start a new and pleasant life.
But then, I opened my eyes and found myself back when my daughter was in sixth grade of primary school. She was crying and throwing books at me, yelling, “You’re such a control freak! Why are you my mother?”
I calmly pulled out an agreement. “I won’t discipline you, but words are cheap. Sign this, and you’ll be free.”
Chapter 1
“Why are you so controlling? You won’t let me do anything I want. Why do I have to do things your way? I hate you. Why don’t you just die?” My daughter, Greta Miller, cried while throwing books at me.
The corner of a book hit my chest, and the pain made me gasp. My mind cleared instantly, and when I looked around, I found that the decor was eerily familiar. The suffocating sensation from the thick smoke seemed like it had happened just seconds ago, and the pain in my chest reminded me that what I had experienced wasn’t a dream.
I picked up a textbook from the floor and saw the words “Grade Six” on the cover. I thought in astonishment, “I’m reborn, back to the time when Greta was in the sixth grade!”
My daughter Greta Miller faced the transition from elementary to middle school. If she couldn’t get into a prestigious middle school, her education would lag far behind others. So during this year, I had been closely monitoring her studies and even hired renowned tutors for her, trying everything to ensure she got into the city’s top middle school.
However, halfway through the semester, Greta couldn’t take it anymore. When she got home, she threw her backpack on the floor and stormed
into her room.
I reminded her to put her backpack away properly, and she exploded, hurling those hurtful words at me.
She tore the review materials I had printed for her into pieces and threw them in my face. “If you’re so eager to study, why don’t you go study yourself? You always impose your ideas on me. You’ve never even asked me if I want to go to a prestigious middle school! You’re such a control freak. You make me feel suffocated!”
Almost every week, Greta would have one of these outbursts.
I calmly picked up the scattered textbooks and placed them on her desk. “You told me that you wanted to go to a prestigious middle school.”
When Greta learned that the prestigious middle school adopted a university–style education system with no morning study sessions and elective courses, she was determined to get in.
Hearing what I said, she gave me a disdainful look, filled with arrogance. “With my grades, getting into a prestigious middle school is a piece of cake. What business do you have meddling in this? My teacher said my scores had already exceeded the admission line. Why are you more anxious than me? If you want to push yourself, go ahead. Just leave me alone.”
As Greta spoke, her emotions grew more intense, and her grandmother, Rose Miller, quickly came in to comfort her, “Don’t cry. Your mom is just crazy. With your excellent grades, I believe you’ll get in.”
Then, Rose turned to glare at me, clearly annoyed. “You have gone too far. Greta is just a child. Don’t push her too hard.”
Greta’s grandfather, Frank Miller, chimed in, “Don’t bring your work stress home. Greta is just a kid. If you drive her into depression, you’ll
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Then, Rose turned to glare at me, clearly annoyed. “You have gone too far. Greta is just a child. Don’t push her too hard.”
Greta’s grandfather, Frank Miller, chimed in, “Don’t bring your work stress home. Greta is just a kid. If you drive her into depression, you’ll regret it later.”
Listening to their defense of Greta, I couldn’t help but sneer, “I’m pushing her too hard? She only studies for an hour each night and goes to tutoring only half a day on Saturdays. For her enough sleep, I’ve even rescheduled her classes to Saturday afternoons. She’s in sixth grade, and the exam is in three months. At this rate, she won’t get into a prestigious middle school.”
Greta didn’t even consider what I said and charged at me, trying to hit me. “You’re crazy. Experts say elementary students need enough rest. Yet you still send me to tutoring. You’re a control freak. You’re the cause of all the pain in my life! I’m not your puppet. Why do you always try to control me? Do you only feel satisfied when I’m a mindless study machine under your command?”
Just then, my husband, Phillip Miller, burst into the room, his eyes full of blame. “Blanca Jones, can’t you let her rest a bit more at night? She’s just a kid. If she doesn’t want to study, then let her be. Why are you forcing her? You’re driving this family crazy!”
His words were filled with complaints about me.
Suddenly, memories of the previous life flooded back. I had tried to explain to Greta the importance of effort, but all I got in return was her misunderstanding and resentment. How ridiculous! My daughter, whom I had raised, blamed me for ruining her childhood.
I turned to look at Greta and said calmly, “My previous approach was wrong. Tell me what you want me to do in the future.”
Greta, nestled in Phillip’s arms, froze for a moment. Her eyes were full of inquiry as if she was trying to figure out if I was serious or sarcastic. “Are you serious?”
I nodded.
Seeing my calm reaction, she became emboldened. “I want you to never interfere with my studies. You can’t stop me from doing anything.”
Without hesitation, I agreed, “Sure.”
