When Lucy came home in sobs after a week of babysitting, her mother, Rebecca, was livid.

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When Lucy came home in sobs after a week of babysitting, her mother, Rebecca, was livid. 

Their smug neighbor, Mrs. Carpenter, had refused to pay, brushing it off as a "life lesson." Determined to make things right, Rebecca plotted a clever payback, ensuring Mrs. Carpenter would learn a lesson she’d remember.


Lucy stumbled through the door, her face pale and streaked with crying marks. I froze — the sight of her so unexpected, so jarring, that I stood still.


My daughter wasn’t the type to break down easily, and when she did, it wasn’t like this — tears clinging to her lashes, her chest heaving with uneven breaths, her whole body radiating sadness.


"Lucy?" I hurried to her side and placed my hands on her shoulders. "What happened?"


She didn’t speak right away. She only shook her head as she swiped at her cheeks, trying to gather herself. But I could see she was drained, and it twisted my gut.


I gently guided her to the couch.


Her fingers quivered as she tugged at the sleeve of her sweater, and I waited, heart racing as I braced for whatever had crushed her like this.


Finally, Lucy looked up at me, her voice barely a murmur. "Mom, she... she didn’t pay me."


I blinked, puzzled. "Who didn’t?"


"Mrs. Carpenter!" Her voice cracked, and more tears welled up.


"She said it was a life lesson. 'You should always get stuff in writing. Don’t trust someone’s promise!'"


"She said what?" My voice rose, a mix of shock and anger flooding me.


"She also said that babysitting should’ve taught me about effort, and that was reward enough. Then she slammed the door in my face."


My stomach flipped as I processed her words. "So she didn’t give you anything?"


Lucy shook her head.


My heart pounded faster, heat bubbling in my chest as she continued.


"And her kids, Mom—" She sniffled, her voice shaky. "They were terrible when she wasn’t around. They didn’t listen. They threw toys at each other and at me too! And when I tried to get them to do their summer reading, they laughed and said, ‘Mom says we don’t have to.’"


She angrily wiped her face. "I gave it everything I had. Every day, I was there on time, doing my best. And she just laughed like it didn’t matter."


"Oh, honey," I said, hugging her. She was fifteen, trying so hard to act mature, but in that moment, she was my little girl again. "How much did she owe you?"


"I worked four hours a day for five days… so $220." Lucy sniffled. "I was saving up for that art class I really want to take."


I grabbed my purse without pause. "Here," I said, handing over the cash. "You earned this."


Lucy’s eyes widened. "Mom, no—"


"Yes," I said firmly, placing the money in her hand. "You worked for this. What Mrs. Carpenter did wasn’t some ‘lesson,’ it was plain wrong."


Lucy shook her head. "But you don’t owe me, Mom. She’s the one who lied."


"Don’t worry about it, sweetheart." I pulled her close. "And this isn’t charity. I’m going to have a word with Mrs. Carpenter and sort this out, alright?"


Lucy raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly.


"Now, why don’t you grab a cookie and chill for a bit? I’ll call you for dinner soon."


Normally, cooking helped clear my mind, but not that night. My thoughts were spinning as I prepped the meal. By the time it was in the oven, I was seething.


Mrs. Carpenter and I had never been friendly, but we were civil. She was one of those "tough love" types, always preaching about how "kids these days need reality checks."


I’d brushed off her smug advice before, but this? This was personal. I couldn’t let her stiff Lucy and walk away. But confronting her head-on in anger wouldn’t work.


I needed a smarter move.


That night, I barely slept. I kept seeing Lucy’s bright face when she first got the job.


"My first real gig, Mom!" she’d said. "I’m going to be super responsible. Just watch."


And she had. She’d shown up early, played with the kids, cleaned up — and all for what? To be humiliated by some arrogant woman who thought denying payment was character-building?


I tossed and turned until finally, by morning, I had it. I’d go after what mattered most to Mrs. Carpenter: her image.


At exactly 10 a.m., I rang her doorbell, my face set in a cheerful expression. When she opened up, her brows rose in surprise.


"Rebecca! What brings you over?"


"Oh," I said, syrupy sweet. "I just had to come by and thank you."


She blinked. "Thank me?"

... (continue reading in the 1st comment)

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