As a Single Mom, I Scavenge to Raise My Daughter

Without anything beautiful to sustain the despair of loss, one remains unfazed by the next loss, having already reached the threshold of losing readers. It would be better to start writing a sweet romance novel where the daughter dies, the wife dies, and the protagonist turns into a cream puff, gets a ⭐ disease, discovers she's pregnant again, but the unborn child is inanimate, and the heroine can't bear it and chooses to hang herself.

If you're going to write about a Lolita mom, you can't just write about a Lolita mom. You have to write about the morning light, creeping up her tousled chestnut hair, the soft strands clinging to her sweaty forehead; write about him, half-asleep, whimpering as he snuggles into your arms, his arms wrapped around you with a childlike dependence and an undeniable possessiveness. You have to write about him, wearing an obviously oversized apron, standing on a small stool, clanging and clattering as he prepares breakfast, the sizzling of the spatula and frying eggs mingling with his off-key, cheerful humming; write about him curled up in a corner of the sofa reading in the afternoon, his toes dangling in the air, the two cat patterns on the toes of his socks nodding in agreement. And then there's the way he runs to take your bag when you're tired and worried about you coming home, looking up at you, his eyes filled with...

My only thought right now is that the author of Hakeem Oklahoma could also step into the book and experience it for himself.

I really love your writing style of slowly crushing and destroying beauty. Every chapter feels like I'm being force-fed, haha. 😍 Watching the heroine slowly fall into the abyss actually makes me feel happy and satisfied, haha. Turns out I'm not the only one living like a wrecked person; it turns out beautiful things are destined to be ruined from the start. 😇 It's all your fault! I think I've completely lost my mind. 🤪 Only when I read these desperate things you write do I feel alive. So you have to keep writing, you have to keep writing, don't stop, don't be lazy, don't disappoint me, and definitely don't disappear suddenly. If you dare...

My advice is to drop this book after Rose leaves, brothers, trust me.

Irene died without a second thought, just like a stray dog ​​on the street.

Abusing the master is one thing, but the password doesn't even spare children.

What the hell did I just watch? Why did some random cannon fodder character have to absorb all of the protagonist's daughters' energy? I'm running away!

It's this feeling of despair, this subtle despair permeating every aspect of life, that draws you in like a moth drawn to a flame, instantly captivated at first sight. The desperate flight towards the flames, the instant your body is ignited—an unparalleled interplay of pain and pleasure that makes me feel both agony and ecstasy. Although the aftermath leaves you feeling like you're dying, that single moment of exhilaration is worth savoring and appreciating repeatedly. I haven't seen the rest of the story yet, so I don't know if the wife's role will be included or if she'll be resurrected. If possible, the most compelling plots are those where despair is tempered with a glimmer of hope. When the protagonist is lost in despair, that little bit of uncertainty is exactly what's needed...

Is it really mild abuse? Where is the mildness?