When Lena’s stepmother, Veronica, threw an elaborate party for her 45th birthday, Lena was ordered to play the invisible helper behind the scenes. But this time, karma seemed to be on Lena’s side, ready to give Veronica a lesson she’d never forget.
Grab some popcorn, because this is one of those moments when life serves up poetic justice so perfectly, you can’t help but believe the universe keeps receipts.
Let’s start with introductions.
My name’s Lena. I’m sixteen years old, and I live in a neat, tree-lined suburb with my dad and my stepmother, Veronica. She’s been in my life for about two years, though “in my life” is generous — “looming presence who treats me like free labor” might be more accurate.
If you flipped open a dictionary to entitled, you’d probably see Veronica’s smiling face right next to the definition. And if there were an entry for “bad reality TV stepmom,” she’d star in every episode — except there’s no camera crew, no prize money, and certainly no commercial breaks for me to catch my breath.
Dad? He’s the “happy wife, happy life” kind of man. Translation: he keeps his head down, agrees with whatever Veronica says, and does his best to avoid conflict. The problem is, Veronica is never actually happy.
Last Saturday was her 45th birthday — not that you could forget it. For a full week beforehand, she floated around the house as if she were royalty preparing for coronation day. The party she planned looked like it could rival a small wedding reception.
Three days before the big event, I was making myself a smoothie when Veronica sauntered into the kitchen.
“You’d better get me something special this year, Lena,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “A dishwasher would be nice. After all, I’ve done so much for you.”
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I stopped mid-scoop of yogurt. A dishwasher? Was she serious?
“Uh… Veronica, I’m saving for my prom dress,” I said carefully, already bracing for impact.
Her perfectly arched brows shot up. “Your prom dress? That’s ridiculous. You can just buy something cheap from one of those chain stores. A dishwasher is much more practical. And I don’t want to hear any excuses.”
Excuses? My jaw almost hit the floor. Here was a woman who, in two years, had contributed exactly zero to my personal happiness, acting as if I should hand over my savings like she was the Queen demanding tribute.
What made it worse was that she was the one who’d talked my dad out of letting me get a real part-time job.
“Lena can only babysit for neighbors on this street,” she’d told him once over dinner. “It’s safer, and she doesn’t need that much money anyway.”
So all my prom dress savings came from odd babysitting gigs — enough for a dress I’d been eyeing for months, but nowhere near enough for even the smallest dishwasher.
By the morning of her birthday, the house had turned into a command center for an overblown social event. Caterers rushed in and out. A party planner with a clipboard barked instructions. Delivery vans unloaded so many flowers that our dining room looked like a greenhouse.
Meanwhile, I worked in the background — polishing mirrors, setting up drink stations, arranging hors d’oeuvres trays — all while doing my best to avoid Veronica’s hawk-like gaze.
“Lena, refill the drink station! My guests are thirsty!” she called from outside once people began to arrive.
I plastered on a polite smile and obeyed, floating from table to table like some invisible Cinderella, knowing full well there would be no magical ball or fairy godmother waiting for me later.
Her friends trickled in, all air kisses and perfumed hugs. Veronica basked in the attention, soaking up compliments on her gold-sequined dress as if she were walking a red carpet.
By the time the cake was rolled out — a towering gold-and-white confection worthy of a royal wedding — I’d been running errands for hours. Dad lit the candles while Veronica posed for photos and wiggled in delight. Everyone sang loudly, glasses clinked, and for a moment, I thought the night might finally start winding down.
I was wrong.
The guests had barely finished their cake when Veronica tapped her fork against a wineglass. The room quieted. She looked directly at me with a smirk.
“Well,” she began, “since Lena didn’t get me a dishwasher for my birthday, the least she can do is wash all these dishes. It’s only fair.”
For a heartbeat, I thought I’d misheard her. But then I noticed twenty pairs of eyes swiveling toward me, eyebrows raised.
“You didn’t get your mom a present?” one of her friends, a woman named Tara, asked, voice dripping with faux pity. “That’s just… sad.”
“She’s not my mom,” I said evenly, fighting the lump forming in my throat. “And I told Veronica I didn’t have the money. I’ve been saving for prom.”
Veronica waved a dismissive hand. “Just wash the dishes, Lena. Do something useful for once.”
If she’d said it privately, I might have argued. But in front of an audience, with Dad stuck somewhere across the yard? I just… obeyed.
I started stacking dishes, my hands shaking. But then, something inside me shifted. Maybe it was humiliation turning into rage, or maybe it was the voice of my real mom reminding me I deserved better. Either way, I got an idea.
The guests had gathered their plates, cups, and utensils — all expensive china Veronica had rented from a luxury event company. I carefully loaded them into the sink, smiling sweetly at Veronica every time she glanced over to make sure I was working.
But instead of scrubbing, I turned on the hottest water, added way too much soap, and let the suds build higher and higher. Then, when no one was paying attention, I slipped outside to join the party again.
Minutes later, a loud crash echoed from the kitchen. Guests gasped. Veronica shrieked. We all rushed in to find foam spilling across the floor like a bubble volcano — and half the delicate china broken from sliding off the counters in the mess I’d “accidentally” created.
“Oh no,” I said, covering my mouth in mock horror. “I guess I’m just too clumsy, Veronica. Guess it wasn’t meant to last forever.”
Her face turned the same shade as her lipstick as the party planner whispered, “You’ll have to pay thousands for the damages, Ms. Callahan. The rental contract is very clear.”
The room went silent, and I swear, some of her friends were trying not to laugh.
That night, when the last guest left, Veronica screeched at me, threatening punishment. But for once, Dad stepped in. He’d seen everything.
“Enough,” he said firmly. “You humiliated Lena in front of everyone, and now you get to pay for your little stunt. Don’t you dare blame her.”
For once, Veronica had no comeback.
The next morning, Dad quietly handed me a check. “For your prom dress,” he said. “I should have had your back a long time ago.”
And just like that, the universe balanced its scales.
