Today, like every Sunday, Mike and I pulled up to St. Matthew’s, and I felt that familiar twist in my stomach. Mike, of course, was oblivious, humming along to some old tune as we parked.

“Ready for another round of spiritual enlightenment?” Mike asked, flashing me a wide grin.

I managed a tight-lipped smile in return. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

We walked hand in hand toward the church doors, the sound of the choir already filtering out into the crisp morning air.

Betty stood near the entrance, her silver hair meticulously curled, her smile as fake as her nails. The way she greeted Mike, with that over-the-top affection, made my skin crawl.

“Michael, darling!” she cooed, pulling him into a hug that lasted a beat too long. “I’ve been waiting for you! Choir practice just isn’t the same without you.”

“Hi, Mom,” Mike said, his voice warm.

“Emma, dear. Lovely to see you,” Betty said coolly to me. “I hope you’ve been practicing the hymn for today. I know it can be challenging for… well, some.”

I swallowed the retort that bubbled up in my throat. What was I supposed to say? That I’ve played the piano since I was five and could probably play that hymn in my sleep? Instead, I just nodded.

“I’ve got it covered, Betty,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

The tension between us was as thick as fog, but Mike, as usual, didn’t notice. He was already leading the way inside, chatting about his week, completely unaware of the emotional minefield I was navigating.

I followed, bracing myself for choir practice. My heart thudded in my chest as we entered the sanctuary. Betty immediately took charge, directing everyone to their places like some kind of choir dictator.

When she wasn’t nitpicking at my playing, she was giving the side-eye to the altos for being too flat or the tenors for being too sharp.

“Emma, could you start us off?” Betty asked, her voice sugary sweet, but with that undercurrent of condescension I knew all too well.

I nodded, taking my place at the piano. My fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, just long enough to steady my breathing. As I began to play, Betty’s voice cut through the music like a knife.

“Slow down, Emma,” she ordered. “We’re not in a race.”

I adjusted, though my jaw clenched in frustration. A few bars later, she stopped me again.

“Too slow. You’re dragging the tempo. And watch your dynamics — they’re all over the place.”

I bit back a sharp reply, forcing myself to keep going. This wasn’t the first time she’d done this, but somehow, today felt different. More personal.

Maybe it was the way she kept glancing over at Mike as if seeking his approval, or maybe it was the barely hidden smirk on her lips as she critiqued me. Either way, something inside me snapped.

“I’ve got it, Betty,” I said, my voice low but firm. “I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”

She blinked, clearly not expecting me to talk back. “Well, I hope so. Susan never had any trouble with this piece, you know. She always made it sound effortless.”

There it was — the mention of Susan. Mike’s ex. The golden child in Betty’s eyes, the one who, in her mind, should have been sitting where I was now.

I felt the sting of her words like a slap to the face, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

I’d had enough of being Betty’s punching bag. Enough of smiling through her jabs and pretending it didn’t hurt. It was time for Betty to get a taste of her own medicine.

And believe me, I knew just how to serve it.

That night, I lay awake plotting the perfect revenge. It wasn’t my proudest moment, I’ll admit, but I was done playing the passive daughter-in-law who took Betty’s jibes with a smile.

Mike was snoring softly beside me, completely unaware of the mental warfare I was waging. I stared up at the ceiling, a smirk tugging at my lips as the plan took shape.

Betty’s cranberry sauce was her prized creation, the one dish everyone at church praised as if it were touched by the hand of God himself. It was the centerpiece of her self-proclaimed culinary genius, and it was about to become her undoing.

When the day of the next church potluck arrived, I was ready. I made sure to get to the church early, offering to help set up the tables and arrange the food.

Betty showed up a little later, her cranberry sauce held high like it was a trophy. She set it down with that smug smile of hers, immediately garnering compliments from the other women in the kitchen.

“Betty, your cranberry sauce looks divine as always,” one of them gushed.

Betty beamed, basking in the attention. “It’s an old family recipe,” she said, as if that explained everything. “Susan always loved it, you know. She said it reminded her of Thanksgiving at home.”

I could feel my blood simmering at the mention of Susan, but I kept my cool. This wasn’t the time to lose my composure.

Instead, I made sure to position myself right next to Betty when the potluck line formed, strategically timing my arrival so we’d be serving ourselves side by side.

As we moved down the line, I kept up the small talk, pretending to admire the various dishes. Betty was in her element, accepting compliments left and right. I could almost see the crown she imagined herself wearing.

Then, the moment of truth arrived — I reached for a spoonful of her cranberry sauce, making sure to take a generous helping.

We sat down to eat and Betty watched me with an expectant smile, waiting for the inevitable praise.

I took a bite, made a show of savoring it, and then, right on cue, I froze, my face contorting into a mix of surprise and disgust.

“Is everything alright, dear?” Betty asked, her voice tinged with concern that barely masked her irritation.

I hesitated, just long enough to build the suspense, before carefully extracting what looked like a hair from the cranberry sauce. I held it up for everyone around to see, the room falling into a hushed silence.

“Um, Betty… I think there’s a hair in this,” I said, loud enough for those around us to hear.

You could’ve heard a pin drop. Betty’s face drained of color as she stared at the offending strand.

I could see the wheels turning in her head, the panic setting in as people around us began to inspect their plates with suspicion.

“That’s impossible,” Betty stammered, trying to keep her composure. “I was so careful when I made it…”

But the damage was done. People were subtly pushing their plates aside, suddenly losing their appetite for anything with a hint of cranberry. The once-revered dish was now tainted, both literally and figuratively, and Betty knew it.

She tried to laugh it off, to brush away the growing unease with a strained smile, but it was no use. The whispers had already started, and there was no stopping them.

As the potluck wore on, Betty grew quieter, her usual self-assured demeanor crumbling with each sidelong glance and awkward silence.

Her cranberry sauce sat untouched, an island in a sea of half-empty dishes, and by the time people started packing up leftovers, it was clear no one wanted to take any home.

Betty shot me a tight smile as we gathered our things, but there was no hiding the hurt in her eyes. For the first time, I saw a crack in her armor, and it was both satisfying and sobering.

The car ride home was eerily silent. Mike tried to make conversation, bless his heart, but Betty wasn’t having it. She sat in the backseat, staring out the window, no doubt replaying the day’s events in her head, trying to figure out how everything had gone so wrong.

I kept my expression neutral, but inside, I was reveling in the victory. It wasn’t just about the cranberry sauce — it was about finally standing up for myself, about making it clear that I wasn’t going to be her punching bag anymore.

In the weeks that followed, something changed. Betty was quieter, more reserved. She didn’t criticize my piano playing at choir practice, and she didn’t bring up Susan anymore.

It was like the wind had gone out of her sails, and while a part of me felt a twinge of guilt, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of satisfaction. I’d won, and I hadn’t had to shout or argue to do it.

I knew my revenge was petty, but it served its purpose.

Here’s another story: My tale starts with what I deemed a difficult mother-in-law who disapproved of my relationship with her son. But it ended with me realizing I was wrong about her and her motives. After she passed, I learned some shocking truths about her, my marriage, and my life.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.