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?”