Rebellious Phase (4): Enforcing Discipline
I'd been mulling it over subtly ever since Beatrice's rebellious phase started intensifying. I knew she was at that age where it was natural enough, but as a parent, could I really just let it slide? Even if it meant a rather drastic prescription, I believed some kind of intervention was necessary. Namely, giving her a proper scolding.
From the start, I'd permitted her casual speech and hoped for a close, barrier-free relationship. But lately, it had been getting out of hand. I'd told her to treat me comfortably, not to act spoiled and rude.
When you pick up the switch, you have to swing it decisively.
I knew full well that I fell short as a father. I had no certainty that this was the right answer, either. But with the child veering toward indulgence, leaving it alone couldn't be the solution. That's why I'd prepared this performance.
It tore at my heart, but I forced a cold demeanor as I brought Beatrice to the inn. What I called "finding her a separate place to live" was essentially the same as kicking her out of the house. There couldn't be a better shock therapy for a child. Of course...
When tears streamed down Beatrice's cheeks, my body flinched involuntarily. Still, I somehow kept my expression impassive. To convey that her tears didn't faze me in the slightest.
I stared at her silently without adding more words. Soon, she hurriedly wiped her tears with her sleeve and spoke up.
"...Why, hic, why? Why say something like that all of a sudden? Is it because you fought with Sina yesterday?"
Her voice was thick with moisture, her shoulders trembling as she stammered out the words.
I maintained the "father furious to his wits' end" persona and replied coldly.
"Not exactly. As you said, sisters can fight. I'll scold Sina separately for wrecking the courtyard."
This much was true. Even if Sina was different from Beatrice, once she'd become my daughter, she had to heed her father's will. Naturally, I planned to reprimand her for bickering childishly with Beatrice.
But my hardline stance with Beatrice now wasn't just because of yesterday's incident. Sisters could quarrel, after all. Would I kick out my daughter over that? No, this tough measure was for her behavior over the past year.
Every time she called me that "damn dad", how many times had my heart shattered? If I were a menopausal middle-aged man, I might have shed real tears.
I continued, watching Beatrice who couldn't stop crying even after wiping her eyes.
"This is just me granting what you wanted, as I said before. Wasn't I frustrating enough to annoy you?"
"...Th-that."
I'd merely thrown her own words back at her. Beatrice's eyelashes quivered as she clamped her mouth shut, unable to continue.
Of course she had no excuse. She'd been the one hurling insults all this time.
Truth be told, seeing her rattled like this eased my mind a little. If, against all odds, she shrugged it off with a casual "Fine then~" despite my severity, I would've crumbled first.
The fact that she was tearing up and looking hurt meant her familial affection for me remained—at least some of it, like a year ago. It meant we still had a chance to return to harmonious father-daughter days.
And for that, I needed to stay utterly icy right now. At minimum, she had to apologize for her rudeness so far.
So I spoke even more cruelly and harshly on purpose.
"Well, if something comes up while living alone, you can come back to the mansion. Though I hope it doesn't."
"...".
"I've grown a bit detached from a daughter who calls me 'dad' but doesn't treat me like a parent. Ah, but maybe that's a good thing for you?"
I chuckled deliberately, closed the case on the table, and pushed it aside. Then, as I slowly walked past her, I lightly patted her shoulder—tap.
She flinched at the touch, and I delivered my closing line.
"Take care, Beatrice. You've endured a whole year under a father you despise so much."
"...Ah...".
My plan to shake her up ended here. Now I just needed to act indifferent, open the door, and leave.
Honestly, I wasn't entirely confident. Would this work? Was this the right direction?
I'd been as callous as possible, but she still gnawed at me. Had I gone too far and caused unnecessary hurt? Should I have worded it differently?
Either way, it was my inexperience. Not knowing the right choice even while prescribing harsh medicine for my child made me realize I had a long way to go to be a good dad.
Thud!
"...Huh?"
Just as I grabbed the doorknob to leave, an unexpected sound from behind made me freeze in slight panic.
Thud? Suddenly? It wasn't in any scenario I'd anticipated.
But I had a vague inkling. A chill ran down my spine as cold sweat beaded; I slowly turned around.
Sure enough.
"Beatrice...?"
"...".
There she was, collapsed on the floor, shedding pitiful tears in silence. Or rather, kneeling? Either way, it was a posture of unprecedented politeness and humility as she sniffled.
As I awkwardly looked down at her, Beatrice spoke through the endless streams down her cheeks.
First words, above all.
"...I'm sorry. I was wrong...".
"...".
"I, hic, Beatrice was wrong. Dad, Daddy. Don't go, I'm sorryyy...".
Of course, this was exactly what I'd wanted to hear through this tiresome act.
But the vibe was off from what I'd expected. I hadn't anticipated an apology this quick, nor in this manner. For her to grovel like a grave sinner?
I'd imagined her at most grabbing my hem as I left, reluctantly swallowing her pride to mutter "I was wrong."
This reaction was far more intense than I'd bargained for. Look at that pale, ashen face—her mental state visibly crumbling in real time.
I froze stiff at the sight beyond my expectations, unable to respond properly to her apology.
As I stood silent—whether true or not—her expression crumpled even more pitifully. More tears poured out, naturally.
"Hic, sniff, I was wrong, wrong. I'm sorry for being rude. Sorry for saying mean things to you, Dad. It wasn't sincere. Really."
My stunned, half-hearted reaction at the door had been the issue, it seemed. She babbled apologies while crawling toward me on her knees, scraping them on the cold inn floor, and grabbed my pant leg.
Even that trembled with fear of rejection—her slender fingertips so heartbreaking.
She buried her face, sobbing like a child, shaking her head desperately.
"Don't go, don't leave. Stay a bit, please... Forgive me, forgive me...".
"...Uh, um."
"Hic, sob. You said you wouldn't abandon me, you promised, Dad. You said you'd stay by my side forever. It was all my fault, so keep your promise, please... Yeah? Hic. Waaah."
"Beatrice, that's."
Whatever, I needed to calm her down first. With that judgment, as I cautiously spoke and reached out—
"Ah, ahh...".
"...".
The moment she heard me call her full name, she burst like a broken pipe, eyes flooding as her face twisted like she'd lost everything.
Too late, I realized I'd used her full name again. But the damage was done.
Going beyond timidly clutching my pants, she now hugged my leg outright. The life drained from her eyes.
With hollow, deadened gaze, she wailed desperately.
"It's Riche, you promised to call me Riche, sob. Dad, Daddy...".
"...".
"I, I didn't tell you, but my birthday's next week. What if you leave me here like this...? What am I supposed to do then, huh?"
"...What? No."
And amid it all, a bombshell I'd never heard before popped out. Sweating bullets, I gawked at her in disbelief.
Birthday? Her birthday? Next week?
Of course Beatrice had a birthday. She'd remember her birthdate.
The problem was hearing about it for the first time today.
It had been a year since I brought her to Handel. Three hundred sixty-five days.
Whenever it was, it should've passed at least once by now.
"Why tell me only now, this year? What about last year's?"
More baffled than anything, I gripped her shoulders and asked. Still clinging stubbornly to my leg, she whimpered.
"Y-you never asked, Dad...".
"...".
True, I hadn't. I'd never even thought to.
Because it never crossed my mind.
After crashing into this world, I hadn't properly marked my own birthdays in seven years—the concept had faded. Naturally, checking my adopted daughter's? Not a chance. Foolishly.
As I stood there dumbstruck, gripping her shoulders, she murmured through teary eyes, lost in her own thoughts.
"I, I don't hate you, Dad. I don't dislike you. Really... Living with you was never hard, not once. I was happy...".
"...".
Only then did I finally reclaim my wandering mind, half-forced back.
Now I got it. My drastic prescription had been excessively so.
Shock therapy had limits; hitting her this hard risked breaking her completely. My fault for misjudging.
Thick regret flooded my brain.
"Sigh."
In the end, I let out a deep sigh from my core, looking down at her. Even that made her flinch, shoulders hunching.
...Per the original plan, once she yielded, I'd maintain sternness and correct her firmly. That way, my eldest could weather the rest of her teen years stably.
But now, pushing harder risked total mental collapse.
Resigned, I awkwardly crouched, placing a hand on her head, and said,
"...You planning to keep being rude to Dad from now on? Riche."
Back to her nickname, tone softened warmly.
Beatrice reacted instantly.
Shake-shake-shake-shake-shake-
...Head wagging so furiously I lost count. I felt dizzy, pulling a wry face as I spoke.
"That's enough. I get your intent, so stand up now. Let's go home."
"...!Hic!"
Emphasizing the end deliberately, she whipped her head up, eyes welling anew. Anxiety and despair vanished from her face, replaced by relief and reassurance.
Sighing again, I slipped my hands under her armpits.
Obviously to help her up, but—
"?"
Instead of yielding, she tensed and resisted. As I floated a question mark overhead, she spoke in a still-anxious tone.
"Dad, you said... y-you were detached from me...".
"...Ah. Riche, that was."
Words I'd blurted in the act to shock her. In hindsight, something I never should've said to my daughter.
As I tried to explain it was a lie, heartfelt or not—
"I'm sorry. It was my fault... Hic. Riche will take her punishment."
"...Riche?"
Suddenly spouting nonsense, she stood briskly. The same girl who'd resisted my help moments ago.
Flustered, I stared; she unfastened the short sword at her waist and handed me the empty scabbard.
I took it blankly, and she braced both hands against the wall beside me, squeezing her eyes shut.
With resolute tone, as if steeling herself—
"...G-go ahead, hit me."
"?"
"Ten times, twenty—whatever. Punish me as much as you need to vent your anger."
As I short-circuited, eyes wide, she glanced back and slyly hiked her skirt hem with one hand.
Revealing soft, pale thigh, she murmured seductively.
"Punish your naughty daughter, Daddy...".