Chapter 1: The Day I Fought Back

My mother-in-law, Mrs. Whitaker—who usually strutted around like she owned the air—was actually speechless for once.

She stood there, her expensive heels planted on the hardwood, mouth hanging open. For the first time, that usual haughty cloud around her had vanished—nothing left but pure, dumb shock. The silence in the room was so thick. You could hear the clock ticking in the hallway, counting down each second of her disbelief.

I started to wonder if she’d ever recover, and then—she screamed.

Her scream wasn’t just loud—it was the kind that made my ears ring. Even the neighbor’s dog started barking. Mrs. Whitaker’s face turned beet red, and her eyes bugged out like she’d just seen a ghost.

Her trembling finger jabbed in my direction.

Her hand shook so hard I thought she might lose it. “You little brat! I’ll make you pay for this!”

I took a step back, watching her coldly. Years of resentment that had been bottled up inside me finally eased, just a bit.

A calm washed over me—unexpected, and so sweet. Like the first breath after surfacing from deep water. I finally felt taller—not in inches, but in spirit.

I was only this bold today because I’d won the lottery—nothing more, nothing less, exactly seven million dollars.

Seven million. I’d checked the numbers three times, even pinched my own arm. It was real. That kind of money changes the way you stand in a room. Even if you’re still wearing sneakers from last year’s clearance rack, you feel different.

"Ma’am, what’s wrong?" Gloria rushed in from the kitchen, alarmed by the commotion.

She was drying her hands on her apron, her face scrunched with concern, but her eyes flickered with curiosity. She was always quick to play the loyal housekeeper when Mrs. Whitaker was upset—though in this house, 'housekeeper' was just code for 'resident snitch.'

Seeing Mrs. Whitaker soaked from head to toe, Gloria panicked, fumbling around in confusion.

She did a little dance of indecision—should she grab a towel or call 911? Hard to say. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"Oh my God! Ma’am, what happened to you? Who? Who dared to disrespect you like this?"

Her voice shot up an octave, genuine horror and a little glee mixing together. She glanced at me, suspicion burning in her eyes.

I clearly saw a drop of foot-bath water fall from Mrs. Whitaker’s nose and land right on her lips.

The droplet sparkled under the chandelier, almost too poetic for what it was. I couldn’t help but stare.

She stuck out her tongue and licked it. Didn’t even realize what she was doing.

It was automatic, a reflex. The moment she realized, her eyes went wide with horror, and she froze for a split second before the rage returned.

When she realized what she’d done, she screamed again, shaking with rage, veins bulging on her neck.

She clutched at her pearls, her face contorting, and let out a scream that echoed up the staircase. For a moment, I thought she might actually faint.

For the first time, I saw Mrs. Whitaker—who always liked to act the high-class lady—look so twisted and furious.

Her mascara was running, her hair stuck to her forehead, and all her country club composure had evaporated. She looked almost human, in a tragic, ridiculous way.

"Ma’am, let me wipe you off." Gloria, flustered, finally did something and reached out to wipe Mrs. Whitaker’s face.

She grabbed a napkin from the counter and dabbed at Mrs. Whitaker’s cheeks, hands clumsy and shaking. The napkin left little bits of lint behind.

I leaned against the doorway, arms folded, savoring every second. For once, I didn’t have to hide my smile.

This was the housekeeper Mrs. Whitaker hired at a high salary—dumb as a post, slow to react, and completely useless in a crisis.

Gloria had a knack for burning toast and misplacing the remote, but Mrs. Whitaker kept her around for reasons only she understood.

But because she was mean enough to help Mrs. Whitaker plot ways to torment me, and knew how to flatter, she stayed in Mrs. Whitaker’s good graces.

She was the kind of person who’d laugh at someone else’s pain—if it meant getting a pat on the head from the boss, she was all in.

She always looked at me with contempt, never missing a chance to mock or belittle me.

If I so much as spilled a drop of coffee, she’d snicker behind her hand. I could feel her eyes on me even when my back was turned.

After Gloria’s big hands smeared all over Mrs. Whitaker’s delicate face, she went to wring out her dripping hair.

The scene was almost comical. Gloria’s sausage fingers tangled in Mrs. Whitaker’s expensive highlights.

"Smack!"

The sound echoed through the foyer—sharp, sudden. Even I flinched.

Mrs. Whitaker slapped her. "Are you a fool? Go get a towel!"

Her voice cracked like a whip. Gloria’s face turned a shade paler, shock written all over her.

Gloria, never having been hit before, looked like she wanted to cry. Seeing Mrs. Whitaker’s fury, she held it in. "Oh, right, a towel! I’ll get one now!"

She scurried off, clutching her cheek, muttering apologies under her breath. I almost felt sorry for her—almost.

In her panic, Gloria ran straight to the downstairs bathroom—the one she used herself.

The bathroom was tiny, barely enough room to turn around. She grabbed the first towel she could find, not even checking if it was clean.

A moment later, she came back with a dry towel and carefully helped Mrs. Whitaker dry her hair and face.

She patted gently, trying not to make things worse. The towel was a faded blue, with the faint outline of a cartoon foot on the corner.

Once she was almost done, I covered my mouth in mock surprise. "Wow, Gloria, you used your own towel to wipe Ma’am’s face? And it’s your foot towel?"

I widened my eyes and let my voice carry, just loud enough for Mrs. Whitaker to hear. I couldn’t resist twisting the knife a little.

"Smack!"

The slap was even louder this time. Gloria’s head snapped to the side.

She looked stunned, lips quivering, eyes filling with tears. The room was thick with tension.

Holding her face, she dropped to her knees, terrified. "I’m sorry, Ma’am, I didn’t mean to!"

Her voice was barely a whisper, hands shaking as she tried to plead her case. I could almost see her heart pounding through her blouse.

So it really was her foot towel—I was just guessing.

I stifled a laugh, covering my mouth. Sometimes, life really did hand you perfect moments.

Turns out Gloria’s both dumb and nasty—useless.

I shook my head, amazed at how low the standards were in this house for loyalty.

Mrs. Whitaker looked at her kneeling servant, chest heaving with rage.

Her face was mottled with fury, hands balled into fists. She looked like she might explode.

Watching the two of them so pathetic, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

It was a sharp, sudden laugh—one I couldn’t hold back. It echoed off the marble floors, ringing through the house like a bell of freedom.

Mrs. Whitaker snapped her head up, glaring at me with eyes sharp as knives, each one stabbing my way.

If looks could kill, I’d have been dead a hundred times over. Her glare was pure venom.

"Slap her for me!" Mrs. Whitaker spat out each word, grinding her teeth.

Her voice was icy, each syllable laced with poison. She pointed at me like I was something she’d scrape off her shoe.

"Sure thing!" Gloria scrambled up, flexing her hands, grinning wickedly as she walked toward me.

Her smile was all teeth, like a hyena circling its prey. She’d waited for this moment.

Bullying me? That was her favorite thing.

She’d get a special gleam in her eye every time Mrs. Whitaker gave the order. It was her only real hobby.

Once, on Mrs. Whitaker’s orders, she slapped me so hard my lip split and bled nonstop—all because I’d added two extra jalapeños to a dish and it was too spicy for Mrs. Whitaker.

It was a regular Tuesday, and I still remember the taste of blood in my mouth. Gloria had looked proud of herself.

Just an excuse.

Any reason would do. Too much salt, not enough sugar, the sun rising in the east—it didn’t matter.

They always had endless reasons to torment me.

It was their family sport. And I was always the ball.

Gloria stood before me, smugly raising her arm.

She squared her shoulders, winding up like she was about to pitch in the World Series. Her eyes glittered with anticipation.

Just as her hand was about to come down, I reached out and grabbed her arm.

My grip was steady, my gaze unwavering. For once, I wasn’t the victim—I was in control.

"Smack, smack!"

The sound of my palm against her cheek—sharp, satisfying. Years of humiliation, all in those two slaps.

Before she could react, I slapped her twice with my other hand.

Her mouth dropped open in shock, eyes wide. For a second, she just stood there, frozen.

She pressed her hand to her cheek, looking like she’d been struck by lightning.

Mrs. Whitaker just stared, speechless.

Her jaw dropped, and she actually took a step back, as if afraid I’d come for her next.

A moment later, Gloria howled like a slaughtered pig.

The sound was piercing, echoing through the house. I half-expected the neighbors to call the cops.

"Ma’am! This brat hit me!"

Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her face. She looked to Mrs. Whitaker for rescue, as if I were a wild animal let loose.

I yanked her close, leaning in to whisper in her ear, "I dare hit even your Ma’am—what makes you think you’re off limits?"

My words were slow, deliberate, meant just for her. Her eyes widened in fear.

With that, I shoved her hard.

She stumbled, arms flailing, and crashed into Mrs. Whitaker. The two of them went down in a heap, limbs tangled, dignity forgotten.

The thud was loud, and for a second, nobody moved. Then Mrs. Whitaker let out another wail, clutching her hip.