My 15-year-old granddaughter, Summer, lost her mom at eight.
After my son Amos remarried, his new wife Opal seemed sweet… until she had twins and turned Summer into free help. Then, with a fractured shoulder, Summer was left alone to babysit while her stepmom went bar-hopping. That’s when I, Reese, stepped in.
Summer’s mother, Amos’s first wife, died from aggressive cancer when Summer was eight. Summer never really recovered from losing her mom. She became quieter and more serious, like grief had aged her beyond her years.
Amos remarried three years later to Opal. She walked into our lives with a warm smile and a gentle voice, and everyone thought she was exactly what Amos and Summer needed. But I noticed things. Little comments directed at Summer when Opal thought no one was listening.
“You’re old enough to move on now, Summer.”
“Stop being so emotional about everything.”
“Your mom wouldn’t want you moping around like this.”
Then Opal and Amos had twins. Two beautiful, exhausting toddlers who screamed in stereo and had a supernatural ability to destroy a clean room in under three minutes. From that moment on, Summer stopped being a daughter in that house. She became free labor.
I bit my tongue for a long time. Told myself it was Amos’s family, his choice, not my place to interfere. Until three weeks ago…
Summer’s school bus was in an accident. Not catastrophic, but bad enough. She fractured her collarbone and tore muscles in her shoulder. The doctors put her arm in a sling and gave strict orders: no lifting, no strain, only rest and pain medication.
That same week, Amos had to leave for a four-day work trip. He trusted that Opal would take care of Summer while he was gone. Instead, Opal decided it was time for Summer to “learn responsibility.”
While Summer was injured, Opal left her alone with the twins. All day. Every day. Summer did all the cooking, cleaning, chasing toddlers, and changing diapers, all with one arm in a sling.
Opal? She went shopping. Then to brunch. Then to a wine bar with friends. She even posted about it on Instagram. Smiling selfies with cocktails. Hashtags about “self-care” and “mom life balance.” One post literally said, “Sometimes moms need to recharge! 🍸💅🏼” with a photo of her holding a martini at two in the afternoon.
I didn’t know any of this was happening until I video-called Summer to check on her. She answered quietly, and what I saw made my blood boil. Summer was sitting on the floor, pale and exhausted, with both twins climbing on her.
One was tugging at her sling. The other was throwing Cheerios at her face like she was a carnival game. Toys were scattered everywhere. There was mashed banana smeared on the wall.
“Sweetheart,” I said carefully, “where’s Opal?”
“She said she needed a break.”
That was the moment something in me snapped. I ended the call, grabbed my purse, and muttered under my breath, “Then let’s give her a break she’ll never forget.”
I didn’t call Opal. I didn’t warn Amos. I went straight to the one place that still held my authority. I let myself into Amos’s house with the key I’d kept from when I used to own it. That house had been mine before I gifted it to Amos and his first wife. I knew every corner, every closet, and every creaky floorboard.
I headed straight to the storage room. It was packed with boxes, old furniture, Christmas decorations from 1987, and a broken treadmill Amos swore he’d fix “someday.”
In the back corner, I found exactly what I was looking for: four sturdy combination-lock suitcases. I pulled them out, wiped them down, and smiled.
“Time to pack a punch,” I whispered.
I went upstairs to Opal’s pristine bedroom. Everything was perfectly arranged. Designer clothes hung in color-coordinated rows. Her vanity was covered in expensive skincare products and makeup that probably cost more than my first car.
I started packing every luxury item. Every designer handbag. Every piece of jewelry. Her favorite perfumes. Her silk pajamas. Her collection of face masks that promised to “reverse time” but clearly couldn’t reverse bad decisions.
I even packed her heated eyelash curler. Who heats their eyelashes? Rich people who don’t do their own childcare, apparently.
I folded everything neatly because chaos hits harder when it’s organized. When all four suitcases were full, I locked them with combination codes only I knew. Then I hauled them downstairs one by one and lined them up in the living room like soldiers waiting for inspection.
I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote: “To reclaim your treasures, report to Karma.” I even drew a little smiley face. I’m petty, but I’m polite about it. Then I sat down on the couch with a cup of tea and waited.
Opal walked in two hours later, all smiles and sunshine, carrying shopping bags from stores I couldn’t afford even during a sale.
“Summer, sweetie!” she called out in that sugary voice. “Thanks so much for watching the twins! I just had a few errands to run.”
I took a slow sip of tea. Her eyes landed on the four suitcases lined up in the middle of the living room. She froze. Her face went through about five different emotions in three seconds: confusion, recognition, panic, anger, and finally the early stages of understanding that she’d messed with the wrong grandmother.
“What’s… what’s going on?” she finally whispered.
“Karma’s going on,” I said calmly.
She ran upstairs. I heard her closet doors slam open, drawers being yanked, footsteps pounding like a panicked raccoon. Then she came barreling down the stairs, face red, voice shrill.
“WHERE are my things?!”
“Locked up,” I said pleasantly, gesturing to the suitcases like I was presenting prizes on a game show. “You can earn them back. Or you can leave with whatever dignity you haven’t already ruined.”
“You can’t just… this is theft!”
“Is it?” I tilted my head. “Because I’m pretty sure forcing a 15-year-old with a fractured shoulder to babysit while you go bar-hopping is child endangerment. Should we call the police and compare charges? I’ll wait.”
“You can earn them back.”
“You’re going to take care of this house. And those twins. And Summer. Without complaining. Without delegating. Without disappearing for ‘me time.'”
“For how long?”
“Four days. The same amount of time Amos is gone. If you can manage that, you get your things back.”