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?