Reborn to Raise a Spoiled Monster - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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When my daughter landed her first real job and got that first big paycheck, she went all out—buying her dad a designer tie, splurging on premium health supplements for her grandparents, and even sending her aunt, who lived halfway across the country, a gold necklace.
I waited, half-expecting something for myself, but she just scoffed. "You're the reason my childhood sucked. Why would I waste a dime on you?"
My husband didn't even bother to correct her. Instead, he piled on. "You were so hard on her growing up. Did you really think she'd just forget? And now you expect her to shower you with love? Please."
Later, she treated the whole family to a fancy vacation—everyone except me. Left alone in the house, I never saw the fire coming. The old wiring sparked in the middle of the night, and I didn't wake up in time.
My family cashed in on my life insurance and moved on like nothing happened.
But then—I woke up.
Back in my daughter's sixth-grade year, staring at her tear-streaked face as she hurled books at me, screaming, "You're such a control freak! Why are you even my mother?"
This time, I didn't react. Just pulled out a contract and said coolly, "Fine. No more rules. But if we're doing this, put it in writing."
"Why do you have to control everything? I can't do anything I want! Your way or nothing—I hate you! Why don't you just drop dead?" My daughter, Greta Miller, was in full meltdown mode, chucking textbooks at me like they were grenades.
One sharp corner nailed me right in the chest. The pain shot through me, but it also snapped me into focus. The room—the wallpaper, the furniture—it was all too familiar. The smell of smoke still clung to my senses, the memory of choking on thick, black air feeling way too real.
I grabbed a book off the floor. Sixth Grade Science.
No way.
I'd gone back in time—to the year Greta was twelve.
Back then, I'd been obsessed with getting her into one of the city's top middle schools. The kind of place that set kids up for life. If she didn't make it, she'd be playing catch-up forever. So I'd pushed—hard. Tutors, extra study sessions, the works.
But Greta had hit her breaking point. That day, she'd stormed in, thrown her backpack across the room, and locked herself away.
When I'd reminded her to pick it up, she'd exploded.
Now, she was shredding the practice tests I'd printed, flinging the pieces at me. "If you love studying so much, you do it! You never even asked if I wanted to go to some fancy school! You're suffocating me!"
This wasn't new. These tantrums happened weekly.
I gathered the scattered books and set them on her desk. "You're the one who said you wanted this. Remember? The 'university-style' schedule? No morning classes, electives—you were obsessed."
She rolled her eyes, oozing preteen disdain. "I will get in. My grades are already way past the cutoff. Why are you freaking out? If you're so stressed, go study yourself. Leave me alone."
Her voice kept rising, and right on cue, Grandma Rose swooped in, cooing, "Oh, sweetheart, don't cry. Your mom's just being unreasonable. You're brilliant—of course you'll get in."
Then she shot me a glare. "Enough. She's just a child. Back off."
Grandpa Frank piled on. "Stop bringing your work stress home. If you push her into a breakdown, you'll never forgive yourself."
I almost laughed. "I'm pushing too hard? She studies one hour a night and has tutoring half a day on Saturdays. I even moved her sessions to afternoons so she could sleep in. She's in sixth grade—the test's in three months. At this rate, she won't even make the waitlist."
Greta didn't listen. She lunged at me, swinging. "You're insane! Experts say kids need rest! But no—you've got to control everything! You've ruined my life! I'm not your stupid puppet!"
Then my husband, Phillip, barged in, glaring like I was the problem. "Blanca, for God's sake—let her breathe! She's twelve. If she doesn't want to study, drop it. You're making this whole family miserable!"
The memories hit me like a truck. Last time, I'd tried to explain—hard work pays off. All it got me was her lifelong resentment.
Pathetic.
I looked at Greta, dead calm. "You're right. I messed up. Tell me what you want from now on."
Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. "...Really?"
I nodded.
Emboldened, she crossed her arms. "No more interfering. No stopping me from doing anything."
"Deal," I said.
I waited, half-expecting something for myself, but she just scoffed. "You're the reason my childhood sucked. Why would I waste a dime on you?"
My husband didn't even bother to correct her. Instead, he piled on. "You were so hard on her growing up. Did you really think she'd just forget? And now you expect her to shower you with love? Please."
Later, she treated the whole family to a fancy vacation—everyone except me. Left alone in the house, I never saw the fire coming. The old wiring sparked in the middle of the night, and I didn't wake up in time.
My family cashed in on my life insurance and moved on like nothing happened.
But then—I woke up.
Back in my daughter's sixth-grade year, staring at her tear-streaked face as she hurled books at me, screaming, "You're such a control freak! Why are you even my mother?"
This time, I didn't react. Just pulled out a contract and said coolly, "Fine. No more rules. But if we're doing this, put it in writing."
"Why do you have to control everything? I can't do anything I want! Your way or nothing—I hate you! Why don't you just drop dead?" My daughter, Greta Miller, was in full meltdown mode, chucking textbooks at me like they were grenades.
One sharp corner nailed me right in the chest. The pain shot through me, but it also snapped me into focus. The room—the wallpaper, the furniture—it was all too familiar. The smell of smoke still clung to my senses, the memory of choking on thick, black air feeling way too real.
I grabbed a book off the floor. Sixth Grade Science.
No way.
I'd gone back in time—to the year Greta was twelve.
Back then, I'd been obsessed with getting her into one of the city's top middle schools. The kind of place that set kids up for life. If she didn't make it, she'd be playing catch-up forever. So I'd pushed—hard. Tutors, extra study sessions, the works.
But Greta had hit her breaking point. That day, she'd stormed in, thrown her backpack across the room, and locked herself away.
When I'd reminded her to pick it up, she'd exploded.
Now, she was shredding the practice tests I'd printed, flinging the pieces at me. "If you love studying so much, you do it! You never even asked if I wanted to go to some fancy school! You're suffocating me!"
This wasn't new. These tantrums happened weekly.
I gathered the scattered books and set them on her desk. "You're the one who said you wanted this. Remember? The 'university-style' schedule? No morning classes, electives—you were obsessed."
She rolled her eyes, oozing preteen disdain. "I will get in. My grades are already way past the cutoff. Why are you freaking out? If you're so stressed, go study yourself. Leave me alone."
Her voice kept rising, and right on cue, Grandma Rose swooped in, cooing, "Oh, sweetheart, don't cry. Your mom's just being unreasonable. You're brilliant—of course you'll get in."
Then she shot me a glare. "Enough. She's just a child. Back off."
Grandpa Frank piled on. "Stop bringing your work stress home. If you push her into a breakdown, you'll never forgive yourself."
I almost laughed. "I'm pushing too hard? She studies one hour a night and has tutoring half a day on Saturdays. I even moved her sessions to afternoons so she could sleep in. She's in sixth grade—the test's in three months. At this rate, she won't even make the waitlist."
Greta didn't listen. She lunged at me, swinging. "You're insane! Experts say kids need rest! But no—you've got to control everything! You've ruined my life! I'm not your stupid puppet!"
Then my husband, Phillip, barged in, glaring like I was the problem. "Blanca, for God's sake—let her breathe! She's twelve. If she doesn't want to study, drop it. You're making this whole family miserable!"
The memories hit me like a truck. Last time, I'd tried to explain—hard work pays off. All it got me was her lifelong resentment.
Pathetic.
I looked at Greta, dead calm. "You're right. I messed up. Tell me what you want from now on."
Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. "...Really?"
I nodded.
Emboldened, she crossed her arms. "No more interfering. No stopping me from doing anything."
"Deal," I said.
End of Reborn to Raise a Spoiled Monster Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to Reborn to Raise a Spoiled Monster book page.