When Mia’s stepmother, Trudy, planned an elaborate party for her 45th birthday,
Mia had no choice but to obey every command — including acting as an invisible helper throughout the entire celebration.
But sometimes the universe keeps receipts.
And sometimes… it collects.
Grab some popcorn, because this is one of those moments when karma doesn’t knock politely — it kicks the door in.
Let me introduce you to the key players.
I’m Mia. Sixteen. Trapped in a perfectly ordinary suburban house that feels anything but ordinary. It’s me, my dad, and my stepmother, Trudy.
Trudy’s been around for two years. Long enough to unpack her boxes. Long enough to unpack her personality.
If “entitled” had a spokesperson, it would be her.
Living with Trudy feels like starring in a reality show where I’m the unpaid intern and she’s the self-appointed star. The difference? There’s no camera crew. No audience. No paycheck.
Dad? He’s the “happy wife, happy life” kind of guy. Except Trudy is rarely happy. She expects the world to orbit her. And if it doesn’t, she adjusts it.
Now, let’s talk about last Saturday — the day of her 45th birthday party.
When I say over-the-top, I mean wedding-reception levels of dramatic. Marquee tent. Caterers. Event planner with a clipboard. Enough flowers to start a botanical garden.
And me?
I was backstage crew.
A week before the party, she strutted into the kitchen while I was slicing fruit.
“You’d better get me something special this year, Mia,” she said, inspecting her reflection in the microwave. “A dishwasher would be nice. After all, I’ve done so much for you.”
Right. If by “done so much” she meant limiting my job options and assigning me chores like I signed a contract at birth.
“Uh… I’m saving for my prom dress,” I said carefully.
I already knew the storm was coming.
“Prom dress?” she scoffed. “Buy something cheap. A dishwasher is practical. I don’t want excuses.”
Excuses.
This from the woman who convinced my dad I was “too young” for a real after-school job.
“She can babysit nearby,” she’d told him. “It’s not like she needs much money.”
So I babysat. Quietly. Religiously. Every dollar folded into a little envelope labeled Prom.
And now she wanted me to trade that dream for stainless steel appliances.
Fast forward to party day.
The house buzzed like a hive. Champagne flutes clinked. Music pulsed through the backyard. Guests complimented Trudy’s dress like she’d personally designed it.
Meanwhile, I wiped mirrors. Refilled drinks. Set up the gin station.
“Are we hosting royalty?” I muttered.
When guests arrived, Trudy transformed. She laughed too loudly. Touched arms theatrically. Soaked in admiration like it was oxygen.
“Mia! Drinks!” she snapped from across the marquee.
I floated from group to group, invisible but indispensable.
I finally escaped long enough to grab a plate of lobster mac and cheese.
“You hiding?” Dad asked gently.
“I’m starving.”
“Take five,” he said. “You deserve it.”
For a moment, I felt seen.
Then came the cake.
Candles flickered. Everyone sang. Trudy swayed like she was accepting an award.
She blew out the candles.
Then clinked her fork against her glass.
Silence.
Her eyes locked onto me.
“Mia,” she announced sweetly, “since you didn’t buy me a dishwasher for my birthday, the least you can do is wash all these dishes.”
The air went heavy.
Twenty guests turned to stare.
“You didn’t get your mom a gift?” one of her friends gasped.
My throat tightened.
“I told you,” I said calmly, “I’ve been saving for prom.”
She waved a dismissive hand.
“Just wash the dishes. Do something useful for once.”
The humiliation burned hotter than the candles had.
I could’ve argued.
Instead, I nodded.
“I’ll change and start.”
For the next hour, I scrubbed. Grease. Sauce. Sticky frosting. My fingers wrinkled. My pride stung.
But I didn’t cry.
Not in that kitchen.
The next morning, I woke up to a scream that rattled the house.
I ran downstairs.
The kitchen looked like a disaster movie set.
Water pooled across the floor. Cabinets were warped. The smell of burnt plastic hung thick in the air.
Trudy stood frozen in the center.
“The pipes!” she shrieked. “My kitchen is ruined!”
Dad rushed in.
“Trudy… did you pour all that meat oil down the sink last night?”
“I didn’t know what else to do! And I added drain cleaner!”
Dad went pale.
“You’re not supposed to mix grease and chemical cleaner! You’ve destroyed the pipes.”
Suddenly it made sense.
The sink had clogged overnight. Pressure built. The pipes burst. And the drain cleaner? It melted part of the fittings.
The repairs weren’t small.
They were catastrophic.
For a week, the kitchen was unusable. Contractors came and went. Estimates climbed higher and higher.
Then one evening, Dad made an announcement.
“We need to cut expenses,” he said firmly.
Trudy opened her mouth to protest.
“Except,” he continued, “I’m giving Mia five hundred dollars for her prom dress.”
Silence.
“You can’t be serious,” Trudy hissed.
“You spent thousands on a birthday party. I can spend money on my daughter.”
For the first time, she didn’t have a comeback.
For the first time, Dad didn’t bend.
And for the first time in two years… I felt protected.
Trudy’s attitude shifted after that.
She allowed me to get a real part-time job. She stopped barking orders in front of guests.
“I’ll come dress shopping with you,” she offered carefully one afternoon.
I studied her face, searching for sarcasm.
There wasn’t any.
Maybe the flood cost more than money.
Maybe it cracked something else.
As for me? I found my prom dress.
And when I twirled in front of the mirror, I didn’t feel invisible.
I felt unstoppable.
Will Trudy stay changed?
I don’t know.
But one thing’s certain:
She asked for a dishwasher.
Karma gave her a flood.
And somehow, I walked away with exactly what I deserved.
