My stepmother, Betty, takes every opportunity to belittle me during our weekly church choir practice. But one day, she pushes me too far, so I quietly plot a subtle but devastating revenge that will make Betty reconsider her ruthless behavior.
Today, like every Sunday, Mike and I stopped at St. Matthew’s Church, and I felt that familiar feeling twist in my stomach. Mike, of course, didn’t notice and was humming an old tune as we parked.
“Ready for another spiritual enlightenment session?” Mike asks me, giving me a broad smile.
A smiling man | Source: Unsplash
I answer him with a small smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
We walked hand in hand towards the church doors, the sound of the choir already filtering into the crisp morning air.
Betty stood by the entrance, her silver hair meticulously curled, her smile as fake as her nails. The way she greeted Mike, with that exaggerated affection, gave me goosebumps.
“Michael, my darling!” she coos, pulling him into a hug that lasts a little too long. “I’ve been waiting for you! Choir practice isn’t the same without you.”
A woman hugs her son in church | Source: Midjourney
“Hello, Mom,” Mike said, his voice warm.
“Emma, my dear. It’s lovely to see you,” Betty said to me coldly. “I hope you’ve been practicing today’s anthem. I know it can be difficult for… well, some.”
I swallowed the retort bubbling in my throat. What was I supposed to say? That I’ve been playing piano since I was five and could probably play this anthem in my sleep? Instead, I just nodded.
“I’ll take care of it, Betty,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
A woman looking sideways | Source: Pexels
The tension between us was as thick as fog, but Mike, as usual, didn’t notice. He was already leading the way inside, chatting about his week, completely oblivious to the emotional minefield I was navigating.
I followed her, preparing for choir practice. My heart was pounding in my chest as we entered the sanctuary. Betty immediately took charge, directing everyone into their seats like a sort of choir dictator.
When she wasn’t nitpicking my playing, she was making eyes at the altos because they were too flat or the tenors because they were too high.
A woman leading a church choir | Source: Midjourney
“Emma, can you get us started?” Betty asked, her voice sugary sweet, but with that undertone of condescension I knew all too well.
I nodded, taking a seat at the piano. My fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, just long enough to steady my breathing. When I began to play, Betty’s voice cut through the music like a knife.
“Slow down, Emma,” she ordered me. “We’re not racing.”
I adjusted, though my jaw clenched in frustration. A few steps later, she stopped me again.
A woman making a gesture | Source: Midjourney
“Too slow. You’re dragging the tempo. And watch your dynamics—they’re a bit all over the place.”
I bit back a scathing retort, forcing myself to continue. It wasn’t the first time she’d done this, but today was different. More personal.
Maybe it was the way she glanced at Mike, as if seeking his approval, or maybe it was the barely concealed smile on her lips as she criticized me. Either way, something inside me snapped.
A woman playing the piano | Source: Midjourney
“I get it, Betty,” I said, my voice low but firm. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
She blinked, clearly not expecting me to answer. “Well, I hope so. Susan never had a problem with that piece, you know. She always did it effortlessly.”
And there it was—the mention of Susan. Mike’s ex. Betty’s golden child, the one who, in her mind, should have been sitting where I was now.
A woman frowning while playing the piano | Source: Midjourney
I felt the sting of his words like a slap in the face, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter.
I was tired of being Betty’s punching bag. I was tired of smiling through her punches and pretending I wasn’t hurting. It was time Betty got a taste of her own medicine.
And believe me, I knew exactly how to serve her.
A woman looking over her shoulder | Source: Midjourney
That night, I stayed up plotting the perfect revenge. It wasn’t my finest moment, I’ll admit, but I was tired of playing the passive stepdaughter who took Betty’s taunts with a smile.
Mike snored softly beside me, completely oblivious to the mental war I was waging. I stared at the ceiling, a smirk playing on my lips as the plan took shape.
Betty’s cranberry sauce was her most prized creation, the dish everyone in church praised as if it had been touched by the hand of God himself. It was the centerpiece of her self-proclaimed culinary genius, and it was about to become her undoing.
Cranberry Sauce | Source: Pexels
When the day of the next church potluck arrived, I was ready. I made sure to arrive at the church early and offered to help set the tables and arrange the food.
Betty arrived a little later, her cranberry sauce held aloft like a trophy. She set it down with her smug smile, immediately earning compliments from the other women in the kitchen.
“Betty, your cranberry sauce looks divine as always,” one of them raves.
A woman carrying cranberry sauce | Source: Midjourney
Betty beams, enjoying the attention. “It’s an old family recipe,” she says, as if that explains everything. “Susan always loved it, you know. She said it reminded her of Thanksgiving at home.”
I felt my blood rush at the mention of Susan, but I kept my cool. This wasn’t the time to lose my cool.
Instead, I made sure to position myself right next to Betty when the potluck line formed, strategically timing my arrival so that we served ourselves next to each other.
People at a church potluck | Source: Midjourney
As we moved down the line, I continued to make conversation, pretending to admire the various dishes. Betty was in her element, accepting compliments left and right. I could almost see the crown she imagined herself wearing.
Then the moment of truth arrived – I grabbed a spoonful of her cranberry sauce, making sure to take a generous portion.
We sat down to eat and Betty looked at me smiling, waiting for the inevitable praise.
I took a bite, pretended to savor it, and then, just in time, I froze, my face contorting in a mixture of surprise and disgust.
A woman pulling a face | Source: Unsplash
“Is everything all right, dear?” Betty asked, her voice tinged with concern barely masking her irritation.
I hesitated, just long enough to build suspense, before carefully extracting what looked like a hair from the cranberry sauce. I held it up for everyone to see, the room falling into a hushed silence.
“Um, Betty… I think there’s a hair in there,” I said, loud enough for the people around us to hear.
You could have heard a pin drop. Betty’s face drained of color as she stared at the offending strand.
A shocked woman | Source: Midjourney
I could see the wheels turning in his head, panic setting in as people around us began to suspiciously inspect their plates.
“It’s impossible,” Betty stammers, trying to keep calm. “I was so careful when I made it…”
But the damage was done. People were subtly pushing their plates away, suddenly losing their appetite for anything with a hint of cranberry. This once-revered dish was now tainted, literally and figuratively, and Betty knew it.
Cranberry sauce on a table | Source: Midjourney
She tried to laugh it off, to brush off the growing unease with a tight smile, but it was no use. The whispers had already started, and nothing could stop them.
As the meal dragged on, Betty grew quieter and quieter, her usual confidence crumbling with every sidelong glance and awkward silence.
Her cranberry sauce remained untouched, an island in a sea of half-empty dishes, and by the time people started packing up leftovers, it was clear no one wanted to take any home.
Cranberry sauce on a table | Source: Midjourney
Betty gave me a tight smile as we gathered our things, but it was impossible to hide the pain in her eyes. For the first time, I saw a crack in her armor, and it was both satisfying and sobering.
The car ride home was eerily silent. Mike tried to start a conversation, but Betty didn’t. She sat in the backseat, staring out the window, probably replaying the day’s events in her head, trying to figure out how everything had gone so wrong.
A woman staring at her cranberry sauce | Source: Midjourney
I kept a neutral expression, but inside, I was reveling in the victory. It wasn’t just about the cranberry sauce—it was about finally standing up for myself, about making him understand that I wasn’t going to be his punching bag anymore.
In the weeks that followed, something changed. Betty was calmer, more reserved. She no longer criticized my piano playing in choir and no longer talked about Susan.
A woman at choir rehearsal | Source: Midjourney
It was as if she no longer had the wind in her sails, and even though a part of me felt a pang in my heart, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of satisfaction. I had won, and I hadn’t needed to shout or argue to achieve it.
I knew my revenge was petty, but it had its uses.
Here’s another story: My story begins with what I consider a difficult mother-in-law who disapproved of my relationship with her son. But it ended when I realized I was wrong about her and her motives. After she passed away, I learned some shocking truths about her, my marriage, and my life. Read more here .
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the story. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims regarding the accuracy of events or character portrayals and are not responsible for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and all opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the opinions of the author or publisher.
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