“Coming home this late every day. What kind of example are you setting for her?”
I stood in the entryway, my hands slowly curling into fists.
I had heard this lecture for seven years.
Whenever I worked late, he’d tell our daughter that women who come home late are restless and improper.
If I woke up late and didn’t make breakfast, he’d say a good mother would never let her child go hungry.
Under this constant emotional pressure, I’d been forced to give up parts of the company, rush home early, juggle being a stay-at-home mom while still trying to build a career.
And yet, nobody ever noticed what I gave. All I got in return was fucking blame!
“There was something going on at the company,” I said, swallowing my emotions out of habit.
“Cruella, go to bed early. You have art class tomorrow.”
The words had barely left my mouth when she suddenly screamed.
“I don’t want to go!”
That brat grabbed a cup from the table and hurled it at me.
I didn’t have time to dodge. The cup shattered against my forehead. A sharp ringing filled my ears. I staggered, reached up, and my hand came away covered in blood.
“I don’t want to learn painting!” She cried hysterically. “I hate it! Why are you forcing me? You’re a bad mommy!”
Viggo rushed over immediately and pulled her into his arms.
“Alright, alright. Baby, don’t cry,” he soothed softly.
Then he frowned at me. “What’s wrong with you, honey? Why are you putting so much pressure on the child?”
“She’s only six.”
“Isn’t it better for her to grow up happy?”
As I stood where I was, a chill crept up from my feet.
Back then, it was Cruella who loved painting. She begged me for it again and again.
I was the one who thought she was too young and wanted to wait.
It was Viggo who said I was selfish. Who said I wasn’t thinking about her future. Who said it would make her fall behind at the starting line.
And now, somehow, it was all my fault.
I wiped the blood from my face, my voice turning cold.
“Cruella. Apologize to me.”
The living room went silent.
“You dared to hit your mother today,” I said, staring at her. “Tomorrow, will you dare to hit other kids at kindergarten?”
“I will not accept raising a criminal.”
I had never spoken so harshly to her before.
She froze then burst into loud sobs.
“Bad mom! Bad mom! Bad mom! I don’t want to talk to you anymore!”
“Why should I apologize to a bad mom?”
Viggo’s expression darkened completely.