The Price of Their Twisted Art

In my past life, my daughter, Willow, fully aware of my trypophobia, plastered our walls with her "art installation"—countless pictures of lotus seeds and honeycombs.

My husband, Caleb, not only stood by and watched but also declared we had to "respect the child's freedom of artistic expression."

He even covered the bathroom mirror with a dense pattern of dot stickers while I was showering, claiming he was helping me with "exposure therapy."

Overwhelmed by the extreme visual and psychological trauma, I completely broke down. In a desperate attempt to escape through the window, I fell to my death.

This time, I’ve decided to abandon them.

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1

"Mom? Hello? Did you hear me? I said I have a big surprise for you."

Willow's cheerful, giggling voice jolted me back to the horrifying reality: I had been reborn.

I clutched my phone, my entire body trembling.

In my past life, Willow had used this same lighthearted tone to rush me home.

The moment I opened the door, I was met with walls plastered in dense, dizzying patterns.

I’ve always had trypophobia; the mere sight of such images makes me break out in a cold sweat. But now, countless photos of lotus seeds and honeycombs stared back at me.

I couldn't stop myself from screaming, begging Willow to tear down the pictures, but she said with feigned innocence, "Mom, this is my art installation. You're recording your most authentic reaction!"

As she spoke, she even held up her phone to film me.

My legs gave out from under me. The concert souvenir T-shirt I’d bought for her slipped from my grasp, trampled underfoot in my panic.

Willow rushed over, feigning anxiety. "Mom, how could you be so careless! The T-shirt is dirty!"

Her lip trembled as if she were about to cry, but I couldn't bring myself to comfort her. Just then, a spotted lizard darted out of her room.

"Ah! Ah!"

I spun around to flee, but my foot slipped, and I tumbled down the stairs.

My ankle snapped. I clutched my foot, screaming in agony, and then watched in sheer horror as the lizard crawled onto my body. The terror consumed me, and I blacked out.

"Mom, are you even listening to me! This is so disrespectful to my creation!"

Willow's shouting shattered the memory.

She chided me in her childish voice. In the past, I would have found it cute. I would have cooed, "Okay, okay, Mommy's sorry. Will my little girl forgive me?" and coaxed a smile back onto her face.

But this time, I was done.

I hung up without a word and said to the customer service representative from the ticketing website, "I'd like to cancel this concert ticket."

The representative was in the middle of confirming the ticket. Hearing my words, they paused and asked, "Ma'am, are you sure? This is the last VIP section ticket."

It was for Willow's favorite band, which was wildly popular. Every time I tried to buy tickets after finishing my chores, they were already sold out.

Today, Caleb had uncharacteristically offered to pick up our daughter, allowing me to be at the computer early enough to snag the last one.

I said, "Yes, I'm sure. Please cancel it." After a pause, I glanced at my phone. "While you're at it, please cancel all the app subscriptions I have for her and refund the balance to my account."

Even with a family plan, Willow's favorite apps cost at least a few thousand dollars in total.

Now, I’d rather donate that money to an animal shelter than waste it on that ungrateful brat.

After unsubscribing from all the services, my account had over a thousand dollars more.

From this moment on, she wouldn’t get another cent from me.

Willow called again and again. Exasperated, I finally answered.

"Dad, look! It'll crawl onto my hand!"

Hearing her excited voice directed at her father in the background, I gasped.

There was a surprised "Ah" on the other end, as if she hadn't expected me to pick up.

But in an instant, her cheerful tone morphed into accusation.

"Mom, I called you. Why did you just hang up on me without saying anything? That was so disrespectful."

I ignored her accusation. "Were you just playing with that lizard?"

"What? No… no lizard," Willow stammered, caught off guard and fumbling for a response. "Mom, come home, I have a surprise for you."

The "surprise" she was talking about was that lizard and her "art installation."

Even though I had caught her red-handed, she still wouldn't tell the truth.

Caleb had taught his daughter well. She’d learned the word "respect" and used it to demand everything from me.

But neither of them had ever respected me.

Caleb knew I was afraid of dense patterns, yet he secretly bought a lizard to bring home. To do so, he lied about having a seminar, giving me a "day off" while he went to pick up Willow himself.

Willow knew I was terrified of these things, yet she still wanted to trick me into coming home for a scare, only to flash a wicked smile and say, "Mom, are you surprised? I've always wanted to do this project, and Dad helped me make my wish come true!"

They knew it terrified me, yet they plastered the house with those pictures, let the lizard roam free, and even allowed it to crawl onto my leg while I was immobilized with a broken bone. They watched the color drain from my face, and they roared with laughter.

Finally, they "showed great mercy" by telling me that Willow was willing to compromise for my sake and keep the lizard in a tank.

Although I was still petrified, for Willow's sake, I endured my fear.

Lying in bed, unable to move, I felt the constant, cold-blooded stare of the creature in the terrarium. During that time, every second at home was agony. I’d often wake from nightmares in a panic, frantically patting myself down to make sure no reptiles were on me.

My ankle finally healed, and I could at last take a hot bath. But Caleb had secretly transformed the entire bathroom into a trypophobic hellscape.