When my husband Caleb left me for another woman, I was 48, raising two kids alone. I worked nights, stretched every dollar, and kept us afloat. Then Sadie moved in next door. Younger, glamorous, and single, she showed up at my door one afternoon in tears, begging me to clean her trashed house after a party. She offered $250 — more than I made in a week. I agreed. Two days later, her place sparkled. Exhausted but relieved, I asked for payment. She smirked. “Payment? I never said that.”
Humiliated, I stewed — until I remembered she still had my spare key. That night, I loaded my car with garbage bags from the dump and let myself into her house. One by one, I scattered rotting food, diapers, and trash across every surface I had scrubbed.
When Sadie confronted me the next day, I smiled. “How could I have gotten inside? You never gave me a key, remember?” She sputtered, furious but afraid. And I knew she’d never try to use me again.