Disowning My Rebellious Daughter

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.