To Save My Troubled Daughter, I Transformed My Husband Chapter 1

In the maternity ward, Lawrence held our daughter, grinning wide.

"Claire, you’re awake. Look, here’s our daughter."

Looking down at the baby wrapped in blankets, I clenched my fists, trembling all over.

I knew that one day, my daughter would grow up and kill me.

This was my third time coming back. In my last two lives, I died at my daughter’s hands.

She was born with a cold heart, ungrateful—a daughter who would betray her own mother.

I raised my hand high.

"Claire, what are you doing?" Lawrence looked at me in shock.

"Smack."

My hand connected with his cheek.

A father, yet he left her entire upbringing to me.

In those past lives, I kept searching for where I went wrong in raising her.

This time, I’d figured it out: raising a child was not just my responsibility.

Even if I ended up dying at her hands again, this time, Lawrence would go down with me.

……

Content

I believe there are people born bad, but my daughter wasn't one of them.

When I nursed her, she always seemed so hungry, her little mouth eagerly latching on. Even without teeth, her tiny mouth was strong enough that sometimes it brought tears to my eyes. Once, I couldn’t stand the pain and softly told her, "Honey, go gentle. It hurts Mommy."

Tiny as she was, she lay there softly, as if understanding me, and slowed her feeding. After that, she was always gentle, never hurting me again.

When Ainsley was two, we didn’t have much, but now and then, I’d buy her a small cake. Each time, she’d waddle over with that little cake, giggling, holding it out to me to take the first bite. Most times, I couldn’t bring myself to eat it, but once, I took a big bite, and Ainsley didn’t mind at all. She just grinned, then devoured the rest, happy as could be.

I used to think I had an angelic child.

But somewhere along the way, her personality became erratic. When I wouldn’t let her have ice cream, she would run straight to Lawrence and Mrs. Mayfield to say I was pinching and hitting her and refusing to let her eat.

At the time, I figured she was just a little too wrapped up in her imagination.

But after that, whenever I was the least bit strict, she’d tell everyone I was an abusive mother.

In preschool, she fought Emma Blake for a toy, and after a gentle scolding from her teacher, she spread rumors that her teacher had "touched her inappropriately." I had no idea where she’d learned that term. Fortunately, all the preschool teachers were women, or it would have been impossible to explain.

When I called her out for lying, she sobbed, insisting she wanted to beat up Emma and the teacher. Then she saw a friend playing the piano and decided she wanted one too. I told her a piano was too expensive, but she kept crying and pleading until I gave in and bought it. After a few lessons, she refused to play. No amount of coaxing helped.

Then one day, I came home from work to find the piano smashed to pieces. The entire living room was in chaos.

I assumed it had to be a break-in and called the police. Their investigation found nothing: no one had entered our home.

It was all an act by Ainsley, orchestrated just to get out of practicing.

Seeing the mess, I wanted to punish her, but I couldn’t bring myself to. After a few scoldings, she staged a hunger strike. My heart softened, and I coaxed her into eating again.

Since then, she’s done as she pleased. In middle school, she frequently skipped class, and I’d only find out when teachers called. She was addicted to video games, barely speaking to anyone around her. When I scolded her, she’d shout right back, with no trace of respect.

Lawrence and Mrs. Mayfield insisted I had spoiled her rotten, and honestly, I knew they were right. I’d allowed her too much leeway from the start. But at this point, it was too late. She wouldn’t listen to any of my attempts at discipline.

Whenever I raised my voice, she’d hold a knife to her throat, claiming she was depressed and would kill herself.

I was terrified, always rushing to comfort her.

To prevent her from hurting herself, I let her do whatever she wanted.

Lawrence suggested sending her to a specialized school for troubled kids, but I clung to him, sobbing, saying it wasn’t an option. If Ainsley really was depressed, sending her there would make things worse, and we’d regret it forever.

But Ainsley found out about it anyway and stole money from us before running away from home.