The Devil's Child

My daughter was born a devil.

I once thought about killing her.

I used to believe there was no such thing as a child born evil, not until my daughter came into this world.

When she was two, Grandma was feeding her. She casually said, "Baby, let me have a bite of your banana." My daughter picked up her chopsticks and stabbed Grandma right in the eye. Grandma never saw it coming. She ended up in the hospital that same day.

Her father joked about taking away her toy. Without a word, she slammed it on the floor and stomped it to pieces with her feet, shrieking the whole time.

When she was four, a friend brought her child over. The two kids started arguing for some reason. While we were trying to calm the other child down, my daughter slipped into the kitchen, grabbed a cleaver, and hurled it at the kid. We almost had a tragedy on our hands.

She loved watching us panic. The more we screamed, the more excited she got, clapping her little hands and giggling without stopping.

As she grew older, she only became more terrifying.

Exhausted, her father said to me, "Let's have another one."

Through the half-open door, a pair of cold, dark eyes were watching us.

One

At first, I was pregnant with twins. I thought it was a blessing from heaven, but when I went back for another checkup, only one fetus remained.

After the ultrasound, the gynecologist said the other embryo hadn't developed and had been absorbed.

"It's normal. Based on the ultrasound, the remaining fetus is healthy. Don't worry."

"What do you mean, absorbed? Absorbed by whom?" I pressed.

The doctor paused, then explained, "In simple terms, an embryo that develops poorly or is weaker can't grow properly. The human body is naturally suited for a single pregnancy. With twins, they compete for nutrients, and the weaker one gets absorbed."

"But..." I pulled out all my previous ultrasound reports, heartbroken. "At first, both fetuses were developing together. Their heartbeats and sizes were almost the same."

"I'm sorry."

When I got home from the hospital, my husband comforted me, saying one child was fine.

I figured he was right, so I tried to relax.

Afraid the other fetus might disappear again, I became extra cautious.

As the fetus grew, my body started acting up—severe morning sickness, anemia. The doctor said I had to eat well to support the baby's development. My family fed me rich foods, and I ate as much as I could, but I kept losing weight, making my belly look even bigger.

At the next checkup, the doctor was worried. I was too thin, and she feared the baby wasn't developing properly. But the tests showed the baby was growing perfectly—no, too perfectly.

It was as if every bit of nutrition I consumed was being stolen by her.

"The baby is too big. You need to control your diet. No more overeating," the doctor said.

I saw hesitation in her eyes. A woman as gaunt as me carrying a baby that large—it wasn't normal.

A baby that big was a problem. At home, I cut back on food, which left me constantly hungry.

Whenever I was hungry, the baby would thrash around inside me, kicking and punching as if demanding nutrients.

A few days later, I fainted from anemia and was rushed to the hospital. The doctor said I was malnourished and put me on IV nutrients.

The baby was still larger than normal.

"We'll go with a C-section," the doctor finally conceded, telling me to resume eating.

To find a balance, I ate just a little more—enough to keep the baby from growing too big and to keep myself alive.

By the seventh month, I was skin and bones. My cheeks were hollow, my limbs thin and weak, and only my belly was grotesquely large.

I looked like a deformed monster from a movie poster.

When I looked in the mirror, I couldn't believe that was still a woman.

I knew pregnancy was a trial, but I never imagined mine would be this brutal.

To save both myself and the baby, I checked into the hospital early. I had quit my job at three months because I couldn't handle the pregnancy symptoms. Losing my income put all the financial pressure on my husband.

He was good to me, working himself to the bone and taking on a second job.

I prayed countless times for the baby to stop draining me, to leave me enough strength for us both to survive. But the fetus didn't listen. It kept taking, as if determined to suck me dry.

Her greed landed me in the hospital repeatedly. I looked like a walking corpse, and we spent nearly three hundred thousand dollars. My mother-in-law came to help, chipping in some money of her own.

During the C-section, I hemorrhaged and nearly died on the operating table.

My daughter was finally born—eleven pounds. The doctor said she was the biggest baby he'd ever delivered, and that was with strict dietary control.

I lay weak in bed, staring at her adorable face, thinking, *All the suffering is over.*

"You little thing, you've put your parents through hell. Be good from now on, okay? Mommy and Daddy will love you."

I kissed her soft cheek, and she smiled at me. Newborns are all red and wrinkly, not pretty, but to me, she was the most beautiful angel in the world.

I thought the nightmare was over. I didn't realize it was only just beginning.

Two

After the C-section, I was barely alive. The pain from the anesthesia wearing off was excruciating. The nurse placed my daughter in a bassinet beside my bed and said I needed skin-to-skin contact—hold her, touch her.

Easier said than done. I could barely move, let alone hold her. Of course, I wanted to.

It's a strange feeling. Maybe only mothers understand: you know you have a child, and you love them, but that love feels filtered, like a duty—*I'm a mother, so I must love my child.* But when the child is right there in front of you, the love becomes real, tangible.

This child was the most important person to me. Not because books, ethics, or laws said so, but because of something primal that appeared out of nowhere in my body—instinct.

"Waaah—"

A cry came from the bassinet.

"She must be hungry," my mother-in-law said, beaming as she picked up the baby and placed her beside me.

Being a first-time mom, I felt shy. I asked my husband to pull the curtain around my bed before awkwardly unbuttoning my shirt to nurse.

Without warning, a sharp pain shot through me. I screamed.

It felt like an animal had bitten me.

My daughter's face was innocent and sweet, but her bite was vicious.

"It hurts," I told the nurse when she came in.

"That's normal. Everyone's different. Some women are more sensitive to pain, and nursing can hurt at first. You'll get used to it," she reassured me.

I felt embarrassed. There was another woman in the ward who had given birth the same day. She nursed her baby calmly.

I asked if it hurt.

She said a little, but she could handle it.

I'd never been a mother before, so I assumed this was normal and gritted my teeth.

My daughter wanted to nurse constantly. The intervals were short, and the moment I put her in the bassinet, she'd wail.

The middle-aged woman taking care of the patient in the next bed got annoyed. "If your baby's fussy, just keep feeding her."

My husband apologized and brought the baby back to me.

The moment I put her to my breast, she latched on, and I screamed again.

"Can you stop being so dramatic?" the woman snapped. "Every woman here has had a baby and nursed. None of them scream like you. The baby doesn't even have teeth yet—how bad can it be?"

My husband's face darkened. "Mind your own business."

The woman argued back. "Your wife is disturbing my daughter! My grandson was sleeping fine, but your kid's crying woke him up, and now my daughter can't rest either!"

My husband clenched his fists. I quickly said, "Marcus."

He turned and walked out of the ward. Soon, a nurse transferred me to a private room.

I worried about the cost, but my husband stroked my forehead and said, "I picked up a side job recently. Made ten thousand dollars. Enough for you and the baby to have a decent room."

"Marcus..."

I couldn't hold back my tears.

It was strange. I hadn't cried during the worst of the pregnancy or from the C-section pain. But one kind word from my husband, and I was sobbing.

They say having a baby makes you emotional. Maybe it's true.

Three

My husband took care of everything in the ward. My mother-in-law was gentle and accommodating. Compared to the other women in the hospital—those fighting over not having a son, or whose families only cared about the baby—I was incredibly lucky. So lucky that if I complained about nursing pain, I'd feel ridiculous.

When I was discharged, my husband stayed by my side the whole time.

But he never reached for the baby on his own. I had to ask him to hold her.

I grew worried. "Marcus, do you not like girls?"

Was he disappointed we didn't have a son?

He pinched my cheek. "Don't be silly. I love anything that comes from you."

I relaxed.

My mother-in-law showed no signs of favoring boys over girls. She cooked, cleaned, and never said a word out of line. She was very sensible.

It was hard to believe that a few years ago, she had been a pampered socialite. After the family went bankrupt, she taught herself to cook and clean, handling life's hardships with grace.

I admired her.

Our family was happy. With my husband and mother-in-law's care, I forced myself to endure the pain. But within days, the spot where I nursed became raw and infected.

That was when my mother-in-law and husband realized my pain wasn't an act.

My husband immediately told me to stop breastfeeding and switch to formula.

But my daughter refused. She insisted on breast milk.

I didn't think she liked nursing. I think she liked biting me.

My husband scolded her. "No more!"

He was firm. He stopped me from breastfeeding.

The baby cried from hunger, and I cried too. My husband held me back, standing coldly with a bottle of formula. After a day of this, she finally gave in and drank the formula.

But she wasn't just difficult during feeding. She was impossible in every way.

I couldn't sleep at night. Neither could my husband. He had to work during the day, so I told him to sleep in the study. He refused, saying he wanted to be with me and wouldn't let me suffer alone.

Even exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes, he was still stunningly handsome.

He was beautiful. I considered myself pretty, but his features were more delicate than mine. If he dressed as a woman, he'd make me look plain.

If his family hadn't gone bankrupt and his father hadn't gotten into trouble, I never would have had a chance with him.

Seeing how hard it was for me, he hired a nanny.

I said no—we'd already spent so much on my hospital stays. But he insisted.

The nanny told me my daughter was the most difficult child she'd ever cared for.

The baby would cry the moment I was out of sight. The nanny couldn't even hold her. I let the nanny go and took care of the baby with my mother-in-law.

After a few months, she stopped crying as much at night, and we finally got some peace.

We bought her lots of toys, including a Barbie doll.

When I came back from the bathroom, the doll's head had been twisted off.

"Maybe it's just cheaply made," my husband said. He bought her better toys—a chick, a duck.

Within two days, the chick's wing was torn off, and the duck's legs were ripped out.

I started to notice something wrong with my daughter. She liked toys because she wanted to destroy them.

I mentioned it to my friend Yvonne, whose son was a year old. She said, "Kids are like that. Mine loves taking things apart too."

Was that normal?

I had no experience with children, so I believed her.

I took my daughter for walks in the neighborhood. The kids loved playing with the dyed baby chicks sold on the street. My daughter seemed interested, so I brought her closer. "Look, baby, a chick."

She giggled, reached out, grabbed a chick, and snapped its neck.

Four

"It's normal. Kids don't understand life and death. They don't know their own strength."

When I told Yvonne and my mother-in-law, they both said the same thing.

"Baby, you can't hurt little animals," I said gently, trying to teach her.

She just giggled.

By the time she turned one, her selfishness was undeniable.

Anything that belonged to her—toys, food, clothes—no one could touch. If anyone tried, she'd scream.

We didn't think much of it at first. Parenting experts and experienced mothers all said young children are naturally selfish. It's instinct. You're supposed to give them whatever they want before age two to build a sense of security. If you don't, they might develop personality issues later.

So we gave her everything she wanted. My husband made time for her after work, showering her with love and attention.

When she was a little over one, a friend had a baby and asked for hand-me-downs. I packed up my daughter's old clothes and toys.

I didn't hide what I was doing—who hides things from a one-year-old? She started wailing, wobbling over to me and grabbing the toys out of my hands.

Toys she didn't even play with anymore.

I thought she wanted them, so I put them down and picked up something else. She grabbed that too.

Everything I touched, she took. When I stopped, she crawled away to play with something else.

Since she cared so much about her toys, I went into the other room to pack her clothes. I left the bag by the sofa. When my friend arrived, I handed it to her.

"Waaah—"

My daughter screamed, ran over, and grabbed the bag. She wouldn't let my friend take it.

We tried to wait until she wasn't looking, but the moment we touched the bag, she'd cry. Eventually, she hugged the bag and dragged it to her play area.

No one was allowed near it.

My friend left empty-handed and got clothes from someone else.

I told my family. My mother-in-law and husband said nothing, thinking she'd grow out of it. Until she turned two, we just had to indulge her.

Fine. I hoped she'd get better.

By the time she turned two, she was more selfish than ever.

We tried to teach her to share. She refused. When playing with other kids, she wouldn't share her things and always tried to take theirs.

When she was two and a half, my mother-in-law was feeding her at home.

My daughter was eating a banana, holding child-sized chopsticks. My mother-in-law leaned in and said, "Baby, let Grandma have a bite of your banana."

She took a bite without asking. My daughter shrieked, raised her chopsticks, and stabbed Grandma right in the eye!

Grandma screamed, clutching her face.

I was stunned. This was the grandmother who had raised her since birth! And she couldn't even have a bite of banana?

I rushed Grandma to the hospital. The doctors saved her eye, but her vision was permanently damaged.

Grandma, ever gentle, said it wasn't the baby's fault. She already had poor eyesight from age. It was just an accident.

When my husband came home and found out, he was furious. He wanted to spank her.

I stopped him, along with Grandma. We agreed we shouldn't hit her. We had to guide her.

To teach her about sharing, we tried taking her things.

My husband deliberately took her doll and said, "Baby, can Daddy have this toy?"

She screamed and grabbed for it. He offered her a small cake in exchange. She refused. Then she got angry, threw the doll on the floor, and stomped on it, screaming.

She'd rather destroy it than give it away, even to her own father.

No one could take anything from her.

It got to the point where, during meals, if she wanted a dish, no one else could touch it. If we bought fruit she liked, no one else could have any, or she'd throw a tantrum that shook the whole house.

Nothing the parenting experts suggested worked. She refused to share. She was pathologically selfish.

And not just selfish—she had no empathy.

I, her father, and her grandmother were the people closest to her. We gave her everything, yet we couldn't take a single thing from her. When I was sick and told her to be quiet because I needed rest, she never cared. She'd keep fussing.

Maybe she was too young to understand.

But when she was three or four, she was still the same. She never showed concern for us, not even a little.

I was her own mother.

When playing with other kids, she'd hit them. She wanted their things, and if she couldn't have them, she'd roll on the ground and throw a fit.

I never taught her that. She figured it out on her own.

Other parents worried their kids would be bullied. I worried mine would bully theirs.

She was always hurting other children. Nothing we said got through to her. Eventually, my mother-in-law and I agreed to use force.

After she hit another kid and the parents came to complain, I lost it. I grabbed her hand and smacked it with a ruler, telling her to stop hurting others or she'd be punished.

She screamed and rolled on the floor. Grandma and I ignored her.

She kept rolling, making a huge scene. I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed her hand and gave her two light smacks. "You're almost four years old! Stop bullying people and throwing tantrums!"

She struggled and shrieked. When I let go, she ran to the coffee table, grabbed a fruit knife, and lunged at me!

"I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" she yelled, swinging wildly.

I was in shock.

Luckily, she was small and weak. I raised my arm to block, and the knife cut a gash across my hand. Blood poured out.

Grandma grabbed the knife and pulled her away.

Even in Grandma's arms, she screamed and cried, saying she'd kill me.

After that, we never left knives in the living room.

The image of her shouting "I'll kill you" with a knife haunted me. I went online to ask about it. Everyone said it was a "cursing phase"—kids between three and six pick up bad words and use them without understanding. They grow out of it.

My daughter had never cursed before. This was the first time.

Maybe I was overreacting.

Five

After the spanking incident, my daughter seemed to calm down. A little.

She hated me. When my husband came home, she'd cling to him and say, "Daddy, Mommy hit me! Mommy is bad! Daddy, get a divorce! We don't need her!"

I was shocked. Where did a child that young learn the word "divorce"?

My husband scolded her. "You hurt your mother, and you're complaining?"

She ran to Grandma crying and stuck to her after that, avoiding me and my husband.

Soon, she turned four, and we sent her to kindergarten.

On the very first day, the teacher called to say she had hit another child.

After that, I lost count of how many times I had to go to the school to apologize to teachers and parents.

Sometimes, I'd cry from frustration. I followed every parenting expert's advice, but she never listened. We never hit her—the one time I did was out of anger. Why was she so violent?

If it were just fighting, I could handle it. But she loved using weapons. I don't know where she learned it.

At two, she nearly blinded Grandma with chopsticks. At three, she almost stabbed me. Now she was getting better at using knives, sticks, and other objects to hurt people.

I was terrified she'd seriously hurt or kill someone someday.

We locked up all the knives. We carefully screened her cartoons and books. We banned anything violent. The whole family took turns teaching her, even using spankings. Finally, she stopped using knives.

One day, Yvonne brought her son over to play. The two kids were in the other room while Yvonne and I chatted in the living room. Suddenly, Yvonne's son ran out crying.

We rushed to comfort him. My daughter called out, "Mommy!" twice. I didn't answer right away. She screamed in rage, stormed into the kitchen, grabbed a cleaver, and threw it at the boy!

If Yvonne hadn't pulled him away in time, there would have been blood.

"Morgan!" I screamed. "What are you doing?!"

I grabbed her and spanked her hard for the first time.

She screamed and struggled.

Yvonne left with her son, pale-faced.

When my husband and Grandma came home, my daughter complained that I had hit her. My husband grabbed her and beat her again.

"I'll kill you all!" she cried.

After that beating, she quieted down.

I started to doubt the experts. Gentle teaching didn't work. Only violence got through to her. If she didn't understand the fear of being hurt, how could she know that hurting others caused pain?

Yvonne never let her son play with my daughter again. Neither did the other parents in the neighborhood.

My daughter was lonely, and I felt sorry for her. I took her out every day, hoping to keep her positive. I told her fairy tales and stories about heroes, hoping she'd learn from them.

She listened carefully and behaved well.

For a while, things were calm.

Then one day, she came home and asked me to buy her a pencil case. She dragged me to a fancy stationery store near the elementary school and pointed at one.

I looked at the price tag. Over a thousand dollars.

Ridiculous. A pencil case for over a thousand? Highway robbery!

I asked why she wanted it. She said, "Fiona has one, so I want one too."

I told her, "You already have two pencil cases. We're not buying another."

I never skimped on her, but two was enough. I said no.

She threw a tantrum, and I carried her home.

The next day, the teacher called. My daughter had grabbed another child's pencil case and pushed him down the stairs!

Luckily, the stairs weren't high, and the boy wasn't hurt.

By the time I got to the kindergarten, my legs were shaking. My daughter denied pushing him.

She might be young, but the hallway camera caught everything.

Even with the footage, she denied it.

When we got home, we spanked her and told her to stop stealing and hurting people. Grandma suggested buying the pencil case. My husband and I refused. If we gave in to everything, what would she be like when she grew up?

A few days later, my daughter came home showing off a new pencil case.

I asked where she got it. She said someone gave it to her.

I figured the other kid's parents would be upset, so I told her to give it back.

She refused.

Two days later, the mother of a boy in her class called. It turned out my daughter had used the boy's allowance to buy the pencil case. When he didn't have enough, she convinced him to steal from his grandmother. He took thirteen hundred dollars and bought it for her.

My daughter was beautiful, inheriting her father's looks. Even at a young age, she had the makings of a stunner. People loved her at first sight, and many boys in her class wanted to play with her.

I never imagined she'd use that to manipulate others.

I confronted her. She denied everything.

I was at my wit's end.

Looking back at everything, I began to wonder: Are some people just born evil? No matter how hard you try, you can't change them?

My husband, my mother-in-law, and I were all gentle people. Our family was harmonious. We never cursed or fought. We gave our daughter everything she wanted and loved her unconditionally. Even when she made me angry, I rarely raised a hand.

We took her to wholesome places. The adults in the family always made time for her. We weren't rich, but we put her first, buying her whatever was reasonable, no matter the cost. We taught her right from wrong, told her stories about good role models, and encouraged her to learn.

And yet, she turned out like this.

Selfish, greedy, predatory—as if these traits were in her blood from the womb.

Just like she had drained me of nutrients before birth, now she expected everyone to cater to her. And now, she was preying on others.

She terrified me.

Six

During my daughter's kindergarten years, I lived in constant fear, waiting for the next disaster. Maybe because of the pushing incident, the other kids wouldn't play with her.

She calmed down. No more trouble.

Or so I thought. She had learned to lie, to hide her emotions, to do evil in secret.

Normal kids feel guilty after doing something wrong and change after being taught. My daughter learned to cover her tracks so no one could catch her.

At first, she behaved perfectly. I thought she had changed and rewarded her with a dress she loved.

When she started elementary school, my husband got a promotion, and our finances improved. After the pencil case incident, we tried to give her everything she wanted materially.

There's an old saying: Raise a son poor, raise a daughter rich.

We signed her up for Latin dance classes, hoping to channel her energy and build her grace.

She was beautiful, and the teachers loved her. They said she was a great dancer.

She loved it and practiced hard every day.

As National Day approached, she got excited.

During holidays, the dance school would have the kids perform at malls and schools, showing off and handing out awards.

Adults might find it pointless, but the kids took it seriously, and we went along with it.

My daughter kept saying she'd be the lead dancer. But another girl was better, so the teacher chose her instead. My daughter was furious. She badmouthed the girl constantly.

I tried to be her friend, to avoid sounding like I was scolding her. But her words were venomous, dripping with jealousy. I had to correct her.

She caught herself and smiled sweetly. "I'm sorry, Mommy."

After that, she stopped sharing her feelings with me. She acted cheerful and perfect in front of me.

A few days later, I noticed she was acting sneaky. She had dance class three times a week. One day, when I went to pick her up, she had already left.

The teacher said I had called for her.

Panicked, I ran out to look for her. On the road near the dance school, a crowd had gathered. There had been an accident.

My heart sank. I ran over and found my daughter trembling by the roadside, crying.

She ran into my arms, calling, "Mommy." In the distance, a girl lay in a pool of blood.

It was the girl who was supposed to be the lead dancer.

I didn't want to believe my daughter was involved. But it was too much of a coincidence.

I was shaking. I was terrified she had done it, and terrified someone would find out.

If she had, what would happen to her?

She was only eight!

No, it couldn't be her. It must not be her.

When I got home, I told my husband. His face darkened. He talked to her alone. Later, he said, "It wasn't her."

Soon, the police ruled it an accident. The girl had run into the street and been hit by a car.

I burst into tears. Thank God.

But the girl's mother didn't accept it. She said her daughter never left class early. That day, she was a little late picking her up, and her daughter had left with mine. That wasn't normal.

My daughter told her, crying, "Sienna wanted a snack and asked me to go with her. She said her mom didn't love her and didn't care about her. She wanted to go home alone."

The mother was devastated. She sobbed uncontrollably.

I pulled my daughter aside. "Why did you say that? Don't you see how sad she is?"

My daughter looked innocent. "I was telling the truth."

Adults think children don't lie. The mother left and sued the dance school for negligence. The school paid a hefty settlement and shut down.

Two years later, when I had finally calmed down, my husband told me the truth. "It was her."

I froze. I defended her. "She was so young... The police said it was an accident..."

He said, "Morgan lured Sienna out with the promise of snacks. They lied and said you were picking them up. The teacher was busy and trusted them, so she let them go. They were playing by the road, racing each other. Kids don't watch where they're going... Morgan didn't mean to kill her. She just wanted to hurt her enough to lose the lead role. But a car came speeding by..."

"It wasn't an accident!" I interrupted. "That's not an accident! Why didn't you tell me?"

"No, it was an accident," he insisted. "Morgan didn't mean to kill anyone. She thought she could push her and she'd just get hurt."

I didn't believe him. I knew my daughter.

"If she just wanted to hurt her, she could have pushed her down the stairs! She's done it before!"

"But the stairs have cameras. She got caught in kindergarten. She learned her lesson, so she took her outside."

I was furious. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

He sighed. "What would that change? She's our daughter."

I opened my mouth to argue, but I couldn't speak. I was trembling.

"Let it go," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I pushed him away. "Then why did you tell me now? Why couldn't you have kept it from me forever?"

He looked at me sadly. "Because you knew. You've suspected it for two years. You haven't been eating or sleeping well. I had to tell you the truth."

I sank to the floor, tears streaming silently.

My daughter had killed someone.

She... she really was born evil.

Seven

After my husband told me the truth, I fell into a depression. I couldn't look at my daughter with love anymore.

For the past two years, she had been perfect. Top grades, stunning looks, the star of the school.

I thought she had grown up. Now I suspected she was faking it.

To confirm my suspicions, I secretly investigated her school. It didn't take long to find evidence.

She was a tyrant. Anyone who crossed her would be bullied by her little gang. And she never got her hands dirty. She ordered others to do her dirty work while she stayed clean.

At her school, it was "join me or suffer."

No wonder the parents had stopped complaining. My daughter never touched anyone.

When I found out, I was devastated. I knew she would never change.

That night, my husband and I fought about her again. I was hysterical. "I don't want a daughter like this!"

He tried to calm me down. Then he said, "What if we have another one?"

I froze.

My husband loved our life as a couple. If it weren't for me, he might not have wanted kids at all. I never wanted two, but now, I was considering it.

After the fight, I noticed the bedroom door was slightly ajar.

My husband went to check. "Morgan was listening," he said, frowning.

I didn't know how he knew. Both he and my daughter were too smart. They could figure out anything from the smallest clues.

Panicked, I called her name. No answer. We searched the house and the neighborhood. Nothing.

Just as we were frantic, my phone rang. It was Morgan.

"Mommy, I know you and Daddy don't love me. Since you want a new baby, I'll just die."

I broke down. "We don't want a new baby! Where are you?"

She hung up.

At that moment, I was terrified and panicked.

Terrified as a mother, afraid she would hurt herself. Panicked because she was using suicide to threaten me.

"Morgan!"

My husband and I ran through the streets, calling her name. Across the road, I saw a small figure flash by. My husband chased after her.

Tires screeched. Then a thud.

My husband's body flew through the air, rolling several meters before stopping. Thick, paint-like blood pooled beneath him.

The world spun. My mind went blank. All I felt was nausea.

The crowd surged around me.

The scene was surreal.

I don't remember what happened next. My mind was foggy.

When I came to, my husband was home from the hospital, holding my hand. "It's okay," he said.

I cried. "You're okay! Thank God!"

The accident was caused by a drunk driver. If not for that, it wouldn't have happened.

After surgery, my husband was paralyzed. He couldn't move. I made a decision. I would take him and my daughter to the countryside, to an old house we owned. The air was fresh, and it would be good for his recovery.

As for my daughter, I didn't want her out in the world, hurting others.

She seemed to know she had done wrong. She didn't resist. She quietly packed her things and followed me to the old house.

The house was remote, a small villa we had built years ago. We had hoped it would be bought for development, but the real estate market crashed, and it was worthless. So it sat empty.

In that house, the three of us lived quietly together.

My husband was paralyzed. I bathed him, talked to him, changed his clothes.

To teach my daughter a lesson, I made her take care of him. I made her feed him, bring him water, change his clothes, and wipe him down.

A year passed.

She was still young, but she couldn't take it. She cried and refused to work.

I was furious. "You caused this! Don't you think you should take responsibility?"

She cried, "I didn't know this would happen!"

My husband sighed. "Let her be. Don't make her do this."

My heart turned cold. They say no child is filial to a bedridden parent. And it had only been a year. She already didn't want to care for her father. And he was paralyzed because of her!

She defended herself. "The accident was the drunk driver's fault! You can't blame me! If you want revenge, go after him! Why are you torturing me?"

Her selfishness was beyond belief.

At that moment, I wanted to kill her.

A born evil like her shouldn't exist in this world.

We had a terrible fight. I beat her, hard. I beat her until she was bleeding.

My husband watched helplessly, unable to move.

"Stop! Stop!"

"She deserves it!"

After I finished, I went inside to take care of my husband. I didn't bother with her. When I came out, she was gone.

Fine. Let her go. I didn't care. I hoped she'd never come back. I could never rely on her anyway.

They say children take care of you in old age. Daughters are supposed to be sweet. Morgan was born evil. She couldn't even take care of her paralyzed father for a year. How could I expect her to take care of me? Dream on.

Eight

"You've been talking for an hour. Are you saying the body in the yard was your daughter's doing?"

In the small interrogation room, under the harsh lights, Detective Liu squinted at me, his eyes sharp as a hawk.

I nodded nervously. "It must be her."

The female officer beside him gave me a complicated look.

Detective Liu checked his watch. "An hour. I've heard a fascinating story about a demon girl, from her birth to her disappearance."

"Thank you for listening," I said, gripping my skirt tightly. "But it's not a story. It's all true."

He smiled.

I stared at him, anxious, wondering what else he would ask.

This morning, a group of police officers had barged into my house and brought me to the station for "tea." Later, they dug up a body in my yard, badly decomposed.

I didn't understand what was happening.

After Morgan left, I stayed home alone with my husband. Life was peaceful.

Without her, it was just the two of us, relying on each other. Even though he was paralyzed, I didn't mind.

I thought, maybe someday medical technology would advance enough to help him. Maybe he'd walk again.

Then we'd live a normal life. No more children. Just the two of us.

But the police shattered that peace.

There was a body in my yard. I had no idea how it got there.

Detective Liu said, "You said your daughter killed her twin in the womb, nearly drained you dry, bit you as a newborn, stabbed your mother-in-law's eye with chopsticks at two, stabbed you at three, threw a cleaver at a child at four, pushed a child down the stairs at five, and caused a little girl's death at eight."

I corrected him quietly. "She didn't blind my mother-in-law. She just lost some vision."

Detective Liu smiled. "Close enough. Then she caused your husband's paralysis. So it makes sense that an eleven-year-old could kill an adult, doesn't it?"

I pressed my lips together. "If not her, then who?"

He sneered. "Why not you?"

I was