Trudy had always been the queen of our household, and when she decided to throw herself an extravagant 45th birthday party, I knew I’d be stuck playing the role of the invisible helper. What I didn’t know was that karma was waiting in the wings, ready to step in at just the right moment.
I’m Mia, a 16-year-old high schooler living with my dad and my stepmom, Trudy. She’s been married to my dad for two years, but honestly, it feels like much longer. Trudy has perfected the art of playing the “wicked stepmother” role, with a side of entitlement that could rival royalty. If you’ve ever seen a movie where the stepmom swoops in and turns everything upside down, well, that’s basically my life.
Now, my dad? He’s the classic peacekeeper. His philosophy is “happy wife, happy life,” so Trudy gets away with more than she should. And let’s just say, when it comes to her happiness, it usually involves me doing things I don’t want to do.
But nothing could have prepared me for Trudy’s big birthday party.
She planned it like it was some kind of royal event, pulling out all the stops—caterers, a DJ, even a milkshake station. It was completely over-the-top, all in the name of clinging to her youth. In the days leading up to it, she strutted around the house like she was preparing for her coronation.
The morning of the party, she cornered me in the kitchen. “Mia, I hope you’ve gotten me something nice for my birthday,” she said with a smirk. “Maybe something practical? Like a dishwasher. You know I’ve done so much for you.”
I blinked, barely able to process what she was asking. “Uh, Trudy, I’ve been saving for my prom dress. I’m not sure I can afford—”
She cut me off with a wave of her hand, looking irritated. “A prom dress? That’s ridiculous. Just buy something cheap. A dishwasher is a much better investment, don’t you think? I mean, after all I’ve done for you…”
I was dumbfounded. Did she seriously expect me to spend my prom dress savings on a dishwasher for her? I could feel the frustration bubbling up, but I swallowed it down. “We’ll see,” I muttered, trying to avoid an argument.
Fast forward to the day of the party. The house was buzzing with activity—people decorating, the caterers setting up, music blasting. Meanwhile, I was given my usual role: cleaning up, setting up the drink station, and refilling anything that ran out. It felt like I was a ghost, floating through the event unnoticed, except for when Trudy needed something.
As her guests arrived, Trudy lit up, playing the gracious host, soaking up compliments like a sponge. Every few minutes, I’d hear, “Mia! Refill the drinks!” or “Mia, can you wipe down the tables?” It was like I was hired help at her party, not her stepdaughter.
But I held it together, waiting for the night to end so I could finally escape. I managed to sneak a plate of food and find a quiet corner to eat in peace. Dad came over at one point and chuckled, “Taking a break, Mimi? I’ll get you a fancy milkshake.”
Then came the cake. Trudy pranced around, grinning like she was about to walk the red carpet. My dad lit the candles, and the whole room sang “Happy Birthday” as she swayed to the music. I couldn’t wait for it to be over.
But the real humiliation came when the party started winding down. Trudy clinked her wine glass and made a little speech. Then, in front of everyone, she turned to me and said, “Since Mia didn’t bother to get me the dishwasher I asked for, the least she can do is wash all the dishes.”
The room fell silent. All eyes were on me. My face burned with embarrassment.
One of her friends chimed in, “Oh dear, Mia didn’t get her stepmom a gift? That’s so ungrateful.”
I took a deep breath, trying to keep my cool. “I told you, Trudy, I’m saving for prom.”
She waved me off like I was some kind of inconvenience. “Just wash the dishes, Mia. Make yourself useful.”
I wanted to scream, but instead, I forced a smile and went to the kitchen. For the next hour, I scrubbed dishes, each plate and glass feeling like a reminder of how little she thought of me.
But then, karma stepped in.
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of Trudy screaming from the kitchen. I ran downstairs to find her standing in the middle of a disaster. The floor was flooded, water was gushing from under the sink, and the whole place reeked of burnt plastic.
“What happened?” I asked, trying not to sound too gleeful.
Trudy was frantic. “The pipes are destroyed! The whole kitchen’s ruined!” she wailed.
It turns out, Trudy had poured meat oil down the drain after the party and tried to flush it with some kind of industrial-strength cleaner. She had completely destroyed the plumbing.
I couldn’t help but smirk a little. Karma, anyone?
Over the next week, the kitchen was unusable, and the repairs cost so much that my dad announced they’d have to cut back on spending.
“Well, except for Mia’s prom dress,” Dad said. “I’ve set aside $500 for that.”
Trudy was livid. “You’re spoiling her, David! What about the kitchen?”
But Dad wasn’t backing down. “You spoiled yourself with that party. I think I can spoil my daughter for her prom.”
For once, Trudy had nothing to say. She even begrudgingly agreed to let me get a part-time job so I could save for other things.
In the end, Trudy tried to make amends. “I’ll help you pick out a prom dress,” she offered, her voice unusually sweet.
I’m not holding my breath, though. Karma might have stepped in this time, but I’m pretty sure Trudy’s not done being Trudy.
Would her change of heart last? Probably not.
What would you have done?