When Lena’s stepmother, Veronica, throws an elaborate party for her 45th birthday, Lena is ordered to play the invisible helper behind the scenes. But this time, karma seems to be on Lena’s side, ready to give Veronica a lesson she won’t 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.”
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 swallowed my pride.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll get changed.”
I spent the next hour up to my elbows in hot, soapy water, scrubbing until my fingers went wrinkled. Every glass, every plate, every fork — all spotless. I refused to cry, though the effort left me bone-tired.
When I finally collapsed into bed, the party was over and the house was eerily quiet.
The next morning, I woke to Veronica’s shriek echoing from the kitchen. I groaned, assuming she’d broken one of her fancy gadgets. Recently she’d splurged on a coffee machine so expensive it looked like it belonged in a café.
But when I shuffled in, the scene nearly made me laugh out loud.
The kitchen was a disaster zone. The smell of burnt plastic hung in the air. Water pooled across the floor. Veronica stood in the middle of it all, hair wild, eyes wide.
“The pipes!” she wailed when she saw me. “My kitchen is ruined!”
Dad appeared behind me, looking grim. “Veronica… did you pour all the meat grease into the sink last night?”
“I did!” she said defensively. “The caterers didn’t take it, so what else was I supposed to do? I even added some drain cleaner.”
Dad groaned. “You can’t mix grease and chemicals like that! I told you to pour boiling water, not turn the pipes into a science experiment.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. After the stunt she’d pulled the night before, this felt… suspiciously like instant karma.
The damage was bad — bad enough that the kitchen was unusable for over a week. The repair bill was steep, and Dad made it clear that we’d need to cut expenses to cover it.
“Except for Lena,” he said at dinner one night. “I have $500 set aside for her prom dress.”
Veronica’s head snapped up. “You can’t be serious, Greg! I have to pay for new tiles, and you want to splurge on her?”
“You splurged on yourself for your birthday,” Dad said calmly. “I can splurge on my daughter for her prom.”
Veronica didn’t argue after that. And, to my surprise, something shifted. A few days later, she came to my room, leaning against the doorway.
“I’ll come with you when you look for your dress,” she said. “If you want.”
Was it guilt? An attempt to save face? Who knows. But I agreed, partly because I wanted to pick my own dress and partly because… well, maybe I was curious to see if she could actually be human for once.
Will it last? I’m not holding my breath. But I will say this: the universe has a way of evening the score. And sometimes, it does it with a clogged sink and a flood.
