After my mom died when I was 15, it was just me and Dad against the world. Grief hit us hard, but we leaned on each other. He was my rock through the worst, and I never once questioned his loyalty—until Deborah came into our lives.
She wasn’t a monster, at least not at first. Just the woman Dad married after finding love again. I tried to be happy for him. Truly. He deserved that. But from the beginning, there was a weird undertone—something about Deborah always felt… off.
Still, I kept my distance, stayed polite, and focused on my own life.
College. Part-time jobs. Rent. Groceries. All of it. I managed. And for over a year, I did something else: I saved. Every spare dollar went into my “TV jar.” I skipped takeout, sold my books, and passed on every splurge. I just wanted one luxury—a sleek, beautiful flat-screen TV I could call my own.
And when I finally bought it, I cried.
It sat perfectly in my tiny living room, glowing like a reward for every sacrifice. Dad and Deborah came by for dinner a week later. And the second she saw it—I knew.
Her eyes zeroed in like a heat-seeking missile.
“Oh, this is fancy,” she said, gliding toward it like she owned the place. “Our TV’s ancient now. Henry, don’t you think we deserve something like this?”
I laughed nervously. “Took me a year to save. It was worth every penny.”
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She didn’t laugh.
Instead, she stared me down and said, “Well, you could help us get one too, right? You have yours now.”
I blinked. “Deborah, I’m barely making it month to month. I can’t buy anyone else a TV.”
Her smile vanished. Her whole demeanor shifted in seconds. “Selfish,” she muttered, just loud enough.
Dad tried to smooth it over, but the energy never recovered. That night, as they left, she paused in front of the screen.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she said.
I didn’t realize she meant that literally.
Two weeks later, I got home from work—and stopped cold in my doorway.
My TV—my pride, my year of effort—was shattered. Completely destroyed. The screen wasn’t cracked, it was obliterated. Like someone had taken a hammer to it.
I called Dad in a panic. Deborah answered.
“Oh, that,” she said lightly. “Silly me. I was just cleaning and—oops—I must’ve knocked it over.”
Lies.
She was the only one with a key. My apartment was untouched otherwise. She’d let herself in and smashed it on purpose. And she wasn’t even sorry.
“I feel awful,” she said, fake sweetness dripping from every word. “But accidents happen.”
Dad backed her up. Said we’d shop for a new one together. But it didn’t matter. The damage wasn’t just to the TV—it was to my trust.
Then came the real punch in the gut.
Deborah started telling family I was “ungrateful,” “hostile,” even “unhinged.” Relatives I’d known all my life suddenly stopped texting back. My own cousins told me to “calm down” and “forgive.”
For weeks, I stewed in anger and disbelief.
Until Dad called me—completely rattled.
His voice on the phone was different. Stressed. Frantic.
“Sophie… you won’t believe what happened.”
He was right.
I didn’t.
Apparently, Deborah had been bragging to her friends about how “easy” it was to manipulate my dad. One of those so-called friends recorded her drunken rant at a dinner party and sent it to my aunt—who immediately forwarded it to me.
In the audio, Deborah laughed about smashing my TV. “She thought she was so clever, saving up all year like a little mouse. I’ll always have the upper hand—Henry believes anything I say.”
My chest tightened as I replayed the clip again and again. Proof. Actual proof.
I sent it to my dad without a word.
Silence. Then an hour later, he showed up at my door looking ten years older. He’d confronted Deborah—she denied it, of course—until he played the recording. Then, according to him, she exploded. No apologies. No regret. Just rage at being “caught.”
That night, Dad packed a bag and left her.
And here’s the kicker—remember how she loved to spread rumors about me being “unhinged”? Turns out, she’d also been spreading little lies about my dad at work. Petty things, but enough to damage his reputation. Once she lost him, her lies caught up with her. Her so-called friends dropped her. Family stopped returning her calls. Even her job started looking shaky.
Karma didn’t just knock on her door—it moved in.
As for me? My dad apologized through tears. “I should have believed you, Sophie. I let her poison us. I won’t make that mistake again.”
It wasn’t about the TV anymore. It was about respect. About trust. About knowing my mom’s memory wouldn’t be replaced by someone so cruel.
And with the refund Dad forced Deborah to pay back, guess what we bought together?
A brand-new, bigger, shinier TV. One that glowed not just with pixels, but with poetic justice.
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For a while, things were peaceful. Dad and I rebuilt our bond. The new TV stood proudly in my living room, but more importantly, so did the trust between us. Deborah was out of our lives—or so I thought.
But people like her don’t disappear quietly.
A month later, I came home from work to find an envelope taped to my door. No name, no return address. Just my name written in Deborah’s sharp, unmistakable handwriting.
I froze before opening it, already bracing for venom.
Inside was a single photo.
It was of my mom. A picture I’d never seen before—my mom smiling on a beach, holding my hand as a toddler. On the back, written in Deborah’s handwriting, were five chilling words:
“She’d be so disappointed.”
I nearly dropped it.
Somehow, she had gotten hold of a family photo—something private, sacred. And she was using it to twist the knife.
When I showed Dad, his face turned pale. “This woman is sick,” he whispered. “And I think I know where she got this.”
Turns out, Deborah had been sneaking into the storage unit where my dad kept old boxes of my mom’s belongings. The thought of her rifling through my mom’s things, digging up memories just to weaponize them, made me shake with rage.
Dad immediately changed the locks, closed the unit, and threatened legal action if she came near us again.
And then karma struck harder than ever.
Deborah’s lies had already left her friendless. But now, the recording of her bragging—and the new stunt with the photo—spread through the family like wildfire. Nobody defended her anymore. People she once manipulated turned on her. Her own sister called her “twisted” and cut contact.
Within weeks, Deborah was completely alone.
The last I heard, she was forced to move out of town after losing both her job and her so-called social circle. No one wanted anything to do with her.
And me? I kept the photo of my mom. Not because of Deborah’s message—but because it was the last gift my mom had left hidden away. Somehow, through all of Deborah’s malice, something good emerged.
Dad and I framed it together and placed it right beside the TV.
Every night, when the screen glows, I see my mom’s smile beside it. Proof that love outlives cruelty.
And that karma… always finds its target.
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