In the maternity ward, Lawrence held our daughter, grinning wide. “Claire, you’re awake. Look, here’s our daughter.” Looking down at the baby wrapped in blankets, I clenched my fists, trembling all over. I knew that one day, my daughter would grow up and kill me. This was my third time coming back. In my last two lives, I died at my daughter’s hands. She was born with a cold heart, ungrateful—a daughter who would betray her own mother. I raised my hand high. “Claire, what are you doing?” Lawrence looked at me in shock. “Smack.” My hand connected with his cheek. A father, yet he left her entire upbringing to me. In those past lives, I kept searching for where I went wrong in raising her. This time, I’d figured it out: raising a child was not just my responsibility. Even if I ended up dying at her hands again, this time, Lawrence would go down with me. …… Content I believe there are people born bad, but my daughter wasn’t one of them. When I nursed her, she always seemed so hungry, her little mouth eagerly latching on. Even without teeth, her tiny mouth was strong enough that sometimes it brought tears to my eyes. Once, I couldn’t stand the pain and softly told her, “Honey, go gentle. It hurts Mommy.” Tiny as she was, she lay there softly, as if understanding me, and slowed her feeding. After that, she was always gentle, never hurting me again. When Ainsley was two, we didn’t have much, but now and then, I’d buy her a small cake. Each time, she’d waddle over with that little cake, giggling, holding it out to me to take the first bite. Most times, I couldn’t bring myself to eat it, but once, I took a big bite, and Ainsley didn’t mind at all. She just grinned, then devoured the rest, happy as could be. I used to think I had an angelic child. But somewhere along the way, her personality became erratic. When I wouldn’t let her have ice cream, she would run straight to Lawrence and Mrs. Mayfield to say I was pinching and hitting her and refusing to let her eat. At the time, I figured she was just a little too wrapped up in her imagination. But after that, whenever I was the least bit strict, she’d tell everyone I was an abusive mother. In preschool, she fought Emma Blake for a toy, and after a gentle scolding from her teacher, she spread rumors that her teacher had “touched her inappropriately.” I had no idea where she’d learned that term. Fortunately, all the preschool teachers were women, or it would have been impossible to explain. When I called her out for lying, she sobbed, insisting she wanted to beat up Emma and the teacher. Then she saw a friend playing the piano and decided she wanted one too. I told her a piano was too expensive, but she kept crying and pleading until I gave in and bought it. After a few lessons, she refused to play. No amount of coaxing helped. Then one day, I came home from work to find the piano smashed to pieces. The entire living room was in chaos. I assumed it had to be a break-in and called the police. Their investigation found nothing: no one had entered our home. It was all an act by Ainsley, orchestrated just to get out of practicing. Seeing the mess, I wanted to punish her, but I couldn’t bring myself to. After a few scoldings, she staged a hunger strike. My heart softened, and I coaxed her into eating again. Since then, she’s done as she pleased. In middle school, she frequently skipped class, and I’d only find out when teachers called. She was addicted to video games, barely speaking to anyone around her. When I scolded her, she’d shout right back, with no trace of respect. Lawrence and Mrs. Mayfield insisted I had spoiled her rotten, and honestly, I knew they were right. I’d allowed her too much leeway from the start. But at this point, it was too late. She wouldn’t listen to any of my attempts at discipline. Whenever I raised my voice, she’d hold a knife to her throat, claiming she was depressed and would kill herself. I was terrified, always rushing to comfort her. To prevent her from hurting herself, I let her do whatever she wanted. Lawrence suggested sending her to a specialized school for troubled kids, but I clung to him, sobbing, saying it wasn’t an option. If Ainsley really was depressed, sending her there would make things worse, and we’d regret it forever. But Ainsley found out about it anyway and stole money from us before running away from home.
After Ainsley left, I was heartbroken, crying myself to sleep every night. When I finally saw her again, she was pregnant, standing beside some punk with bleached hair. Lawrence was so furious he slammed his fist into the table, while I just sat there crying. I tried dragging her to get an abortion, but she shrugged me off. “You don’t love me, do you? So why can’t I have a baby who will love me back?” After all the heartache I’d endured for her, how could she think I didn’t love her? She pulled a kitchen knife on me. “Try to force me, and I’ll kill you both.” She walked out with $2,000 from our savings without looking back. Lawrence was smoking on the balcony. “How did you raise her to turn out like this?” he asked, disgusted. And I was asking myself the same thing. Where had my sweet, obedient little girl gone? I ran after her, catching her and the punk at the bus stop. I grabbed her, insisting she come back home. But she was strong now, too strong. I used all my strength, but she shoved me, sending me sprawling on the sidewalk. The pain flared in my back, where I’d suffered an old factory injury. Grimacing, I looked up at her, and she sneered. “Quit faking it,” she scoffed, eyes as cold as a stranger’s. “Ainsley, come home with me. Listen to me. This child will ruin your life.” “My life was already ruined. You just figured that out now?” Tears streaming down, I pleaded, “I’m so sorry, Ainsley. I missed you so much. Just come back home with me.” She slapped a hand over my mouth. “Shut up. Don’t cry; it’s just another way to manipulate me.” “Why would I go home with you just so you can kill my baby?” Before I could reply, I felt the sharp pain of a knife plunging into my chest. I looked down at the blood soaking through my shirt, saw the kitchen knife in her hand. “I won’t let you kill my child,” she said coldly. “I’ll never treat my own child the way you treated me.” Those were her last words before everything went black. When I opened my eyes, I was in a hospital bed again, back to the day I’d just given birth to Ainsley. Lawrence was smiling, showing me our swaddled newborn. The memory of that blade’s cold sting was fresh in my mind. My own daughter had driven it into my chest. I felt chilled to the bone, as cold as the knife that had ended me. How could it be? Even if you raised a dog for eighteen years, wouldn’t it be loyal? Why was Ainsley always so indifferent, like a stone that couldn’t be warmed? Her words echoed in my mind: “I’ll never treat my own child the way you treated me.” Hadn’t I done enough for her? We had so little, but I made sure she always had the best. She wanted strawberries? I’d go out in the dead of winter, even with only a few dollars left in my wallet, to buy the best ones for her. When she was small and terrified of “monsters,” I’d sleep beside her, no matter how sleepless it left me. From toys and snacks to a piano and trips to Cedar Falls Family Park or a family vacation, if she wanted something, I’d give it to her. Wasn’t that enough? Maybe I’d spoiled her too much, let her think she was the center of the universe, that my love was hers to exploit. This time, things would be different. This time, I’d be strict.
In my last life, Ainsley didn’t like eating, so the whole family would chase her around with a spoon, trying to feed her. But this time? If she didn’t want to eat, that was her choice. Right in front of her, I dumped the food straight into the trash. “Eat it or leave it,” I said. “Go hungry if you don’t want it.” She burst into tears, running to Mrs. Mayfield. “Grandma, Mommy won’t feed me, and she hit me!” Lies. Again. I leaned down, speaking low. “Ainsley, tell me, how did Mommy hit you just now?” She put her little hand up to her cheek, indicating a slap. “Oh, really?” I raised my hand and gave her a quick, light smack on the cheek. Her face flushed red. “This,” I told her sternly, “this is called a slap.” She cried louder. “Was that what I did before?” I shouted. “Tell Grandma, did I just do that?” Still crying, Ainsley shook her head. “No.” “Then why did you say I hit you? Why are you lying?” She whimpered, silent. Mrs. Mayfield rushed forward to intervene. “What are you doing? She’s just a child!” “I know she’s a child, so I’m teaching her the difference between the truth and a lie,” I replied, my tone sharp. Mrs. Mayfield crouched, wiping Ainsley’s tears with the back of her hand. “Mommy’s bad, yes, Mommy’s wrong. There, don’t cry, sweetie.” Hearing this, I felt my anger flare up. It was the same as in my last life. My mother-in-law constantly put it in her ear that “Mommy’s wrong” and “Mommy’s no good.” Every time I tried to discipline Ainsley, they would call me too harsh. But when Ainsley truly went off the rails, they turned around and blamed me for spoiling her. I gritted my teeth. “Mom, from now on, stay out of it when I discipline her. If she goes down the wrong path, it’s on you.” Mrs. Mayfield looked at me, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Acting like you’ve swallowed gunpowder. Sweet Ainsley would never go bad.” “You’re so harsh,” she muttered. “Aren’t you worried she’ll pull your oxygen tube out one day?” I laughed bitterly. She wouldn’t wait for that long to kill me. After that incident, I sent Mrs. Mayfield back to her own home. Left unchecked, she’d just spoil Ainsley all over again. I quit my job and dedicated myself to educating Ainsley. I bought a ruler, and every time I caught her lying, I’d slap her palms with it. After a few rounds, she improved. She began looking at me with fear in her eyes. Every time I wanted to go soft, I’d remember the feeling of that blade piercing my chest in my last life. But back then, I hadn’t realized that she was only scared of me; she hadn’t actually changed. When her teacher scolded her at Little Pines Preschool, she went right back to spreading rumors that the teacher had “touched her.” I marched her back to the school, made her stand before all her teachers, and demanded that she point out exactly who had supposedly done this. She burst into tears, admitting it was a lie. When she smashed the piano again, I swallowed my pride and bought another. Every day, I’d stand behind her with a cane, making her practice for two hours straight. Since she’d begged for the lessons, she’d stick with them whether she liked it or not. Ainsley wasn’t the brightest, so I started taking her to extra classes, monitoring her homework. With my strict guidance, her grades improved far beyond what she achieved in my last life. I finally got her into a decent high school, but then she started claiming she was “depressed” again, saying she’d drop out and holding a knife to her throat. In my last life, I would have fallen to my knees, begging her to put down the knife. But this time? Not a chance. “Go on, do it far from me. I don’t want your blood on my hands,” I said coldly. Ainsley was stunned, lowering the knife. She hadn’t expected that reaction. She didn’t want to die; it was all an act. “Don’t want to go to school? Fine. I’ll withdraw you myself tomorrow, and you can get a job and take care of yourself.” She ran away. Two months later, she returned, luggage in hand, complaining that work was too hard. She wanted to go back to school. At last, her attitude toward studying improved. Even though she still didn’t perform that well on her SATs and only got into a lesser-known college, I was satisfied. It was better than her middle school level from my last life. At least I’d made some progress. But once she started college, she returned to her old ways. Out of her fifteen classes, she failed nine in her first year. I called her, but she ignored me. One month went by, then two, then three. Furious, I cut her off financially. The next time I saw her, she was back home with a swollen belly, standing before Lawrence and me.
The memories from my last lives crashed over me. There she stood, next to some punk with green hair and a cigarette in his mouth. Ainsley looked at me, tears streaming. “Mom, I don’t want to go to school. I want to get married and be with him…” Anger boiled up inside me. “If you don’t want school, then what’s your plan to support a child? Don’t expect a cent from me.” Ainsley pouted. “I want to keep the baby. I can just take a break from school. Mason’s a good person; he’ll take care of me.” Lawrence, who had been silent, turned to me, livid. “What kind of mother are you? Look at what she’s become. What have you been teaching her?” That was the final straw. I had poured everything into raising her, and yet here she was. In my last life, she’d killed me for trying to force her into an abortion. The memory of it made me laugh bitterly. “Fine, Ainsley,” I said, my voice hollow. “You’re an adult now. Do whatever you want, but don’t expect any help from me.” A year passed. One evening, after work, I found her sitting on my couch, bruised and holding a baby. She looked up, pulling the same pitiful face. “Mom, how could you be so heartless? Why did you change the locks?” I took a deep breath. “You’re no daughter of mine anymore. You’re not welcome here.” Her voice trembled as she continued, “Mason’s no good to me. He hits me and won’t give me any money.” “I can’t afford to raise a kid. You take her.” Her tone was so entitled it made my blood boil. I opened the door, gathering her things and tossing them outside. “What are you doing? You’re my mother! Isn’t it your duty to take care of me and my child?” she shouted. “Let me tell you something, Ainsley,” I said. “I’ve done all I can. This child is your responsibility, not mine.” She opened the window, clutching her baby in her arms. “If you don’t help, I’ll jump, taking your granddaughter with me.” She thought I’d soften. But I wouldn’t, not this time. I walked to the window, looking her in the eye. “Go ahead. I told you, do whatever you want. I’m done.” She sobbed, “Why? You gave birth to me, yet you never loved me.” A pang of sorrow hit me. “I’ve done everything for you, Ainsley. Can you honestly say I haven’t?” Her tears dried, and suddenly, her face hardened. “If that’s the case, then let’s die together.” Before I could react, she lunged at me with the baby, pushing me towards the window. The railing was low, and I lost my balance, reaching for something to hold onto but finding only air. I fell, but Ainsley didn’t. She never intended to die. She just wanted me gone, so my money would be hers. She stood there with the baby in her arms, watching me fall, a cold smile spreading across her face like that of a demon. I’d thought Ainsley wasn’t born evil, that I’d somehow failed in raising her. I believed I’d made things better this time around. But the truth was, she hadn’t changed at all. She’d only gotten better at pretending. Once again, I died at the hands of my own child. Whether I’d spoiled her or been strict, she still hated me. Was this the fate I was destined to live through again and again? 5
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