Reborn to Raise a Spoiled Monster - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
You are reading Reborn to Raise a Spoiled Monster, Chapter 7: Chapter 7. Read more chapters of Reborn to Raise a Spoiled Monster.
That evening when I walked through the door, Greta's report card lay on the table screaming for a parent's signature. Her name glared in angry red ink, the numbers beside it showing just how far she'd fallen in class rankings.
The old me would've dissolved into tears. Back then, any dip in Greta's grades would send me spiraling - sleepless nights spent agonizing over where I'd failed her, frantic searches for tutoring solutions.
These marks would've triggered nuclear meltdowns before. But as my family braced for the explosion, I just set my bag down and took my seat at the dinner table.
My unnatural calm seemed to signal open season on spoiling Greta. Frank produced a shiny new gaming console. Rose dipped into her retirement fund for in-game cosmetics. Even Phillip - normally the disciplinarian - scrawled his signature across the card with a dismissive, "It's just midterms, kiddo. Doesn't mean squat."
Greta's smirk returned full force. "Exactly! Finals are what matter. Unlike some people who freak out over every little test." She sauntered over, oozing teenage defiance. "I only bombed because I was sick. Don't flatter yourself thinking I need your help - I'm a natural genius. Could game 24/7 and still ace everything."
I gave an approving nod. "You got this." Then went back to my pasta.
The silence stretched until Phillip cracked first.
That weekend, I became one with the couch while Greta's gaming marathon echoed from her room. Two days vanished without a single homework assignment touched.
Monday's chaos erupted at dawn when Rose's shriek pierced the house. "Sweet Jesus! Greta, you pulled an all-nighter?!"
My daughter emerged bleary-eyed, swaying like a zombie. At 6 AM with the school bus looming, no amount of cajoling could rouse her. Phillip finally manhandled her upright, only for Greta to wail, "I'm exhausted! Just call me in sick!"
The irony wasn't lost on me - this was the exact script Phillip used when he'd fake illnesses to take her to Six Flags. Now the chickens were coming home to roost as he stood frozen, processing his creation.
Meanwhile, I nuked a sandwich, grabbed my bag, and breezed toward the door under three pairs of accusing eyes. Their glares said it all - this was somehow my fault.
Phillip blocked my path, playing his trump card. "One step out that door and we're done! The house is mine pre-marriage, and I'll make sure you never see Greta again!"
He expected tears. Instead, I laughed. "Perfect. Let's swing by the courthouse after work."
"You think I'm joking, Blanca?"
"Dead serious."
Cue Greta's grand entrance - hurling my clothes down the hallway like parade confetti. "Do it, Dad! She's bluffing! That pathetic paycheck can't even fund my gaming habit. Watch how fast she comes crawling back when reality hits!"
The little ingrate actually thought she was the prize in this equation.
The old me would've dissolved into tears. Back then, any dip in Greta's grades would send me spiraling - sleepless nights spent agonizing over where I'd failed her, frantic searches for tutoring solutions.
These marks would've triggered nuclear meltdowns before. But as my family braced for the explosion, I just set my bag down and took my seat at the dinner table.
My unnatural calm seemed to signal open season on spoiling Greta. Frank produced a shiny new gaming console. Rose dipped into her retirement fund for in-game cosmetics. Even Phillip - normally the disciplinarian - scrawled his signature across the card with a dismissive, "It's just midterms, kiddo. Doesn't mean squat."
Greta's smirk returned full force. "Exactly! Finals are what matter. Unlike some people who freak out over every little test." She sauntered over, oozing teenage defiance. "I only bombed because I was sick. Don't flatter yourself thinking I need your help - I'm a natural genius. Could game 24/7 and still ace everything."
I gave an approving nod. "You got this." Then went back to my pasta.
The silence stretched until Phillip cracked first.
That weekend, I became one with the couch while Greta's gaming marathon echoed from her room. Two days vanished without a single homework assignment touched.
Monday's chaos erupted at dawn when Rose's shriek pierced the house. "Sweet Jesus! Greta, you pulled an all-nighter?!"
My daughter emerged bleary-eyed, swaying like a zombie. At 6 AM with the school bus looming, no amount of cajoling could rouse her. Phillip finally manhandled her upright, only for Greta to wail, "I'm exhausted! Just call me in sick!"
The irony wasn't lost on me - this was the exact script Phillip used when he'd fake illnesses to take her to Six Flags. Now the chickens were coming home to roost as he stood frozen, processing his creation.
Meanwhile, I nuked a sandwich, grabbed my bag, and breezed toward the door under three pairs of accusing eyes. Their glares said it all - this was somehow my fault.
Phillip blocked my path, playing his trump card. "One step out that door and we're done! The house is mine pre-marriage, and I'll make sure you never see Greta again!"
He expected tears. Instead, I laughed. "Perfect. Let's swing by the courthouse after work."
"You think I'm joking, Blanca?"
"Dead serious."
Cue Greta's grand entrance - hurling my clothes down the hallway like parade confetti. "Do it, Dad! She's bluffing! That pathetic paycheck can't even fund my gaming habit. Watch how fast she comes crawling back when reality hits!"
The little ingrate actually thought she was the prize in this equation.
End of Reborn to Raise a Spoiled Monster Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to Reborn to Raise a Spoiled Monster book page.