Have you ever been in a situation where life just seems to serve up a nice little dose of karma? That happened to me one Saturday when my stepmom, Trudy, threw herself a lavish birthday party. She always believed she deserved the best of everything, and this time, I was apparently her personal servant. But the universe, as it sometimes does, decided to offer a little justice. Trust me, it couldn’t have been better timed.
So, let me back up a bit and explain. My name is Mia, I’m 16 years old, and I live with my dad and my stepmom, Trudy. Trudy and I haven’t exactly hit it off since she came into our lives two years ago. I mean, if you picture a textbook “evil stepmother,” then you’re pretty much imagining Trudy to a T. She is the queen of entitlement, always expecting everyone to cater to her every whim. I get it—she’s my dad’s wife, but sometimes, it feels like I’m living in a never-ending drama, and I’m not even getting paid for the show.
Now, let’s dive into the day that set all of this in motion. Trudy had been hyping up her 45th birthday for months. Seriously, months. Her idea of a “birthday party” was something that could easily have been confused for a royal gala. She wanted everything to be perfect, and that meant me running around behind the scenes like an invisible butler.
The week leading up to her party was a nightmare of expectations. “Mia,” she said one morning while I was simply trying to make myself some breakfast, “I want you to get me something special this year. A dishwasher, maybe. You know, something practical. After all, I’ve done a lot for you.”
A dishwasher? That’s what I’m supposed to get her? She’s never even given me a second glance when it comes to my own needs. Yet here she was, asking for a major appliance on her birthday as though it was some thoughtful, heartfelt gift. What was I supposed to do—get on my knees and thank her for not yelling at me for a whole week?
“Uh, Trudy,” I said, trying to stay calm, “I’ve been saving up for my prom dress. That’s kind of important too, you know.”
You could see the gears in her head turn for a moment, before her face morphed into a scowl.
“Your prom dress? Please, Mia. That’s ridiculous. You can just get a cheap one. But a dishwasher? Now that’s practical.”
She went on about how I should be more “thoughtful” and “considerate” and how “people who care” would sacrifice anything for something as essential as a dishwasher. I was floored. She was acting like I owed her this. But let’s not forget—this was the same woman who thought it was okay to send me out on babysitting jobs all weekend and then belittle my efforts when I made any mention of the future.
So, when Trudy’s birthday rolled around, I was in no way ready for the level of drama that came with it. The party was an over-the-top spectacle. There were caterers, party planners, and even a live band. I’m not exaggerating. It was like she was trying to outdo a Hollywood celebrity’s red carpet event.
“Mia, can you help with setting up the drinks station?” Trudy barked at me as I tried to sneak away to my room to avoid being sucked into her world of vanity.
Of course, I had no choice. Saying no would mean starting World War III. So, I did what I was told, running around like a ghost at the party, making sure everything was “perfect” for Trudy and her entourage of friends.
At one point, as I was sneaking a plate of lobster mac and cheese (hey, I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast), my dad found me in the corner of the house.
“You okay, kiddo?” he asked with a wink, offering me a milkshake.
“Yeah, Dad, I’m just… taking a break,” I said, feeling guilty for not contributing more to the event.
And when it came time for the cake, you could practically feel the excitement in the air. Trudy was positively glowing, strutting around like she was about to make her grand entrance at the Met Gala. Everyone sang “Happy Birthday” with so much enthusiasm, I half expected it to be followed by a fashion show.
But then came the moment that left me speechless. Trudy tapped her wine glass and called for attention.
“Mia,” she began with a sweet but smug smile, “since you didn’t get me a dishwasher for my birthday, I think it’s only fair you help me out. You can start by washing all these dishes.”
The room went quiet. I could feel all eyes on me, waiting for me to react. How could I even respond to that? In front of all her guests, she essentially turned me into the help.
“I didn’t get you a dishwasher because I don’t have the money for it, Trudy,” I managed to say, though my voice was starting to shake. “I’ve been saving for my prom dress.”
“Don’t make excuses,” she snapped. “Just wash the dishes. Do something useful for once.”
I wanted to scream, to tell her everything I was holding back, but I knew that would only make it worse. So instead, I walked to the kitchen, changed into something more practical, and started scrubbing dishes—every single one from that extravagant party.
For the next hour, I did nothing but scrub, my hands sore and tired, and my mind racing with frustration. How could she treat me like this? I was a human being, not her personal servant. But I bit my tongue and kept going, my only solace the hope that someday, some cosmic force would serve up a little karma to balance the scales.
The next morning, I was woken up by a scream that echoed from the kitchen. I groggily stumbled downstairs, only to find Trudy standing there, hands on her hips, staring at a complete disaster.
“What happened?” I asked, still half-asleep.
“The pipes, Mia!” she wailed, pointing to a mess of water and grease. “The entire kitchen is ruined!”
My dad wandered into the room, looking at the scene with a mix of disbelief and concern. “Trudy, did you pour all that grease down the sink last night?”
“I did!” she shouted, “But I used drain cleaner afterward!”
“You can’t just do that,” Dad said. “You need to use boiling water, not drain cleaner. This is going to be expensive to fix.”
Now, I’ll admit, I was having a hard time containing my amusement. Karma had arrived. She had thought it was okay to make me scrub the dishes after her extravagant party, but now she was getting a taste of her own medicine. It felt oddly satisfying.
Over the next week, the kitchen was out of commission as the repairs dragged on, and with it, Trudy’s mood. My dad, being the ever-doting husband, did his best to comfort her, but even he couldn’t hide the fact that the repairs were expensive. Eventually, Dad sat me down and handed me $500 to go toward my prom dress.
“That’s for you, Mia,” he said, smiling. “You’ve worked hard, and you deserve it.”
Trudy nearly had a meltdown. “You’re spoiling her! We can’t afford to fix the kitchen tiles, but you’re going to spoil her with a dress?”
But my dad was firm. “She deserves it, Trudy. You had your big birthday bash. Let Mia have something special too.”
And that, my friends, is how the universe decided to teach Trudy a little lesson. She’d learned not to mess with karma, but whether or not that lesson stuck remains to be seen. For now, I’m just glad to be free of the worst birthday party ever.
