Joanabe your child

The last thing I remembered was the bitter taste of the tea my daughter, Stella, had made for me.

I died slowly, my body betraying me while my mind screamed, alone in a secluded D.C. apartment. Stella, the brilliant Yale graduate, the political commentator I had molded into a star, watched.

Just a day before, her viral video had already shredded my reputation, painting me as a monster.

The poison she gave me simply finished the job. Dying by the hand of your own child, the one you sacrificed everything for, is a special kind of hell.