New York City in autumn is beautiful. The air is crisp, and the leaves in Central Park turn the color of burning embers.
I sat in the window seat of a cafe in the West Village, sipping a black coffee. My book, Reply All, had been on the New York Times Bestseller list for twelve weeks. I had started a foundation for women trapped in emotionally abusive relationships. I was busy. I was happy. I was free.
Across the street, a valet stand was causing a commotion. A black Mercedes was blocking traffic.
I looked up, and my breath hitched for a second.
It was Patricia.
She looked… smaller. The imperious posture was gone, replaced by a hunch. She was arguing with the valet, waving a finger in his face. She looked tired. Her hair, usually lacquered into a helmet of perfection, looked thin.
Passersby were slowing down. They weren’t looking at her with envy or respect. They were whispering. Some were pointing phones. They recognized her. She wasn’t the matriarch of the Wellington dynasty anymore. She was the “Mean Mother-in-Law” from the internet. She was a meme. The social standing she had cherished above all else had been stripped away, replaced by infamy.
Suddenly, Patricia looked up. Her gaze cut across the street and locked onto mine through the cafe window.
Time seemed to freeze.
I saw recognition in her eyes. Then, shame. Then, anger. She looked like she wanted to scream, to storm across the street and demand I fix it.
I didn’t wave. I didn’t flip her off. I didn’t smile.
I just took a sip of my coffee, looked at her with absolute indifference, and turned my head away.
Internal Monologue: They bet on how long I would last. They lost. But I won something they never had to begin with: the truth. And the best revenge isn’t burning them down. It’s forgetting they exist.
“Chloe?”
I turned back to my table. My new client, a publisher who wanted the rights to the movie adaptation, was reaching across the table.
“So,” he said, smiling, intrigued. “I heard you have quite the story about email etiquette. Is it true you actually projected the emails?”
I smiled back—a genuine, unburdened smile that reached my eyes.
“Oh, that?” I said, dismissing the memory of the Wellingtons like a speck of dust. “That was just the first draft. Let me tell you about the sequel.”
If you want more stories like this, or if you’d like to share your thoughts about what you would have done in my situation, I’d love to hear from you. Your perspective helps these stories reach more people, so don’t be shy about commenting or sharing.
