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.

I was rinsing shampoo from my hair, my head bowed. The moment I opened my eyes, the sight of dot stickers on the mirror and lotus pod pictures on the wall made me recoil in shock, slamming my body into the glass shower door.

A sharp pain shot through me, and my vision exploded with stars. I cried out to Caleb for help.

He was standing right outside the bathroom door; I could see his shadow.

"Coralie, your ankle’s healed. It's time to clean the guest bathroom. You need to start your exposure therapy."

"If you're still this scared, Willow will feel guilty. You should think of her. After all, in this house, you're the only one who doesn't appreciate this kind of art. You're the odd one out."

Utterly desperate, I scrambled onto the toilet, trying to get higher.

The images assaulted me, closing in from all sides.

As I climbed onto the windowsill, a suffocating fear tightened its grip on my heart.

The dense patterns triggered a full-body terror. Forgetting I was on the second floor, I leaped out.

Right up until the moment I died, I couldn't understand.

Why would they do this to me?

I had always known my daughter pursued her so-called "art."

But Willow had also always known that I was terrified of dense patterns.

It wasn't until my rebirth, hearing Willow's laugh, that I finally understood.

She was Caleb's daughter, through and through.

All the love I had poured into her couldn't change the cold-blooded nature she'd inherited from him.

She, like Caleb, was born with a love for this kind of cruel art. And like Caleb, she looked down on me.

"You bought a lizard and put up those pictures, didn't you? I heard everything, so why won't you admit it? You know I'm scared, why do you have to push me like this!"

Remembering the moment of my death, I couldn't stop myself from snapping.

Willow was stunned into silence. After my outburst, I hung up.

Caleb sent a barrage of texts, berating me: "What are you freaking out about? Is this how a mother should act?"

"Didn't we agree to treat our child as an independent individual? To respect and love her? If you can't even do that, why did you become a mother in the first place?"

"So what if Willow likes it and wants to do an art project? Is it such a big deal?"

"She's already crying, and you're still not coming home. Are you just abandoning this family?"

"Coralie, are you done with your tantrum? Do you still think you're some little girl and we're just dating? That everyone has to coddle you?"

"Still not home. Who's going to make dinner."

"Did you get the concert tickets Willow wanted? I don't care if you're not attentive to other things, but you can't even satisfy your own child with one concert!"

I found it laughable. I had given everything to this family, yet in the eyes of this father and daughter, I was still an inadequate wife and an inadequate mother.

After we got married, I felt our financial situation was just average, so I wasn't in a hurry to have children.

But Caleb insisted I was getting older, and if we waited, my egg quality would decline. He claimed it would be hard to conceive, and any pregnancy would be prone to miscarriage. Even if I were lucky enough to carry to term, the child would have a weak constitution.

I was so consumed by anxiety that it never occurred to me Caleb was five years older. If anyone's fertility was a potential issue, it should have been his.

Later, when I was pregnant, Caleb would touch my belly every day, saying that when the baby was born, he would personally guide them, ensuring they grew up independent, outstanding, and respected.

Seeing the fatherly love on his face, I felt so lucky I hadn't chosen the wrong man.

He said I needed to rest and wanted me to shut down my design studio early for the pregnancy.

I was reluctant. My studio was just getting off the ground, and closing it now meant all my previous efforts would be for nothing.

But he gave me a look of contempt. "From the moment you got pregnant, your clients started losing confidence in you. Not closing it now would be the real loss."

It was an argument I couldn't win. I walked away from the studio, feeling my partners' pitying, confused stares on my back.

"She doesn't look like she needs bed rest at all."

"She's quitting? But she just landed that huge project."

"I remember Caleb promised us Coralie would stick it out for six months, through the project's critical phase. He said there'd be no issues for at least six months."

"She looks perfectly healthy. It seems a bit sudden to just give up her whole career."

"Who knows, maybe she has some hidden difficulties."

My entire pregnancy was filled with anticipation and anxiety.

Anticipation for the new life and my return to the workplace; anxiety about raising a child and starting my career again.

But as soon as the baby was born, Caleb wanted me to give up my career completely.

"Breastfeeding is healthier. You're a mother now; your first priority is the child. You can't be so selfish."

In my postpartum exhaustion, I was too weak to argue.

Looking at the baby in my arms, a wave of tenderness washed over me.

At that moment, I thought Caleb was right. I could sacrifice anything for this child.

But when I resigned, the pitying words of a former colleague—"She really gave up everything for her family"—still stung.

Caleb's words were framed as comfort, but they dripped with condescension. "People who haven't had children just don't get it. Nurturing a new life is a woman's greatest purpose."

I ordered my favorite Thai food for takeout, enjoying a moment of freedom I hadn't had since my wedding day.

Ever since I got married, I had never eaten takeout again.

Caleb claimed takeout was unhealthy but never cooked himself. He insisted I wake up early to go to the organic supermarket for fresh ingredients.

After making breakfast, I had to prepare lunch, packing a bento box for him to take to the office, all according to Caleb's organic, gluten-free philosophy and preferences.

He would say, "Darling, it's too much trouble for you to come home and cook at noon, and the back-and-forth is such a waste of time. I feel bad for you."

After work, I had to rush to buy groceries for dinner, and the moment I got home, I had to put on an apron, wash my hands, and start cooking.

After dinner came washing dishes, doing laundry, and cleaning the house.

On top of my job, I shouldered the entire burden of the housework. I was physically and mentally exhausted.

This was one of the reasons I was willing to listen to Caleb and become a stay-at-home mom.

"Be a stay-at-home mom, don't work. You'll have it so much easier. I'll support you."

He made it sound so simple, but after Willow was born, I was responsible for every aspect of her life.

He didn't know how to mix formula or change a diaper. At night, he would sleep in the guest room because he found the baby too noisy.

Yet when our daughter grew up and offered to help me sweep, he would say, "Willow, Dad will teach you, you must learn to be independent. See, sweeping is Mom's job. Mom is an adult; this is what she's supposed to do. You shouldn't help her, understand?"

I was annoyed. "Caleb, what do you mean it's my job? Housework is a shared responsibility. Willow is old enough now and wants to help her mother. Why are you teaching her that?"

"You don't have a job anymore, so whose job are the chores if not yours? We agreed I'd work and you'd manage the home. Can you be more mature? You need a child's help with something so simple? This is exactly why I have to teach Willow to be independent, so she doesn't end up like you!"

His voice suddenly rose to a shout. Willow got scared and started crying, and he turned on me again. "If you don't know how to raise a child, why are you butting in? Getting angry over nothing, do you realize you're damaging the child's mental health!"

So this was what he meant by "he'd support me."

I wasn't working, but I was doing just as much work; it was no easier than having a job. And he thought this was how I should achieve self-worth.

And then there was his constant talk about teaching our child to be independent.

I found it ironic. Parents are role models for their children. He himself was a hopeless slob—he’d step over a spill on the floor for three days straight and walk right past an overflowing trash can without a second glance. What right did he have to teach a child to be independent?

He weaponized phrases like "personal space" and "respecting her choices" to manipulate me at every turn.

Not cooking what Willow liked was disrespecting her, not picking her up from school on time was disrespecting her, entering her room without permission was disrespecting her, and if I found trash in her room, that was an invasion of her personal space.

Respect, boundaries... for the sake of their twisted theories, I paid with my life.

But who ever respected me?