Chapter 4 - The Smear Campaign Begins
By Sunday morning, the retaliation had officially begun.
I woke up to my phone vibrating continuously on the nightstand. There were forty-seven missed calls, dozens of texts, and a flurry of social media notifications. My head was pounding, the throbbing pain in my stitched hand a constant reminder of Friday night’s chaos.
Ethan was already downstairs brewing coffee. When I walked into the kitchen, he was staring at his iPad, his face rigid with disgust.
“Don't open Facebook,” Ethan said gently, walking over to hand me a mug of black coffee with his good hand.
“Too late,” I said, holding up my phone with my left hand. “Aunt Clara just sent me a screenshot of Patricia’s latest status.”
Patricia had published a massive, two-thousand-word diatribe on her personal page, set to public. Attached to the post was a blurry photo of Nicole sitting on a curb outside a cheap motel, clutching her belly with an expression of tragic despair.
*“A mother’s heart is broken today,”* the post read. *“My pregnant daughter Nicole and I were violently kicked out onto the street in the dead of night by my son’s narcissistic wife, Harper. Harper refused to allow Nicole a simple warm meal, threw a violent fit, smashed dishes, and manipulated Ethan into throwing his own flesh and blood into the cold. Nicole is now experiencing severe stress contractions. We are praying for the safety of our unborn angel. Please pray for our family as we deal with a deeply disturbed, controlling woman who has brainwashed my son.”*
The post already had over three hundred shares and hundreds of comments from church members, distant cousins, and high-school acquaintances.
*“Disgusting! Call the cops on her!”* one woman commented.
*“Ethan always was weak-willed. I can’t believe he lets that monster treat his mother like that,”* wrote another.
*“Boycott her interior design business! Evil woman!”* read a third.
“They’re already targeting your business page,” Ethan said grimly, turning his tablet toward me. Two one-star reviews had been posted overnight on my interior design firm’s Google profile, claiming I was abusive, unprofessional, and dangerous.
“She really thinks she can ruin my livelihood because she didn't get her rack of lamb,” I said, a cold, calm fury settling over me. The throbbing in my hand stopped bothering me; the adrenaline had taken over.
“I’m calling a lawyer right now,” Ethan said, reaching for his phone. “Defamation, tortious interference, slander. We’re suing her into oblivion.”
“Wait,” I said, resting my hand on his arm. “A cease-and-desist letter takes days, and Patricia will just use it to play the martyr even more. She thinks the public only sees her sob story. She forgot that in the digital age, receipts don't lie.”
“What do you want to do?” Ethan asked.
“Log into our home security portal,” I replied, walking over to my laptop. “Download the raw, unedited footage from Friday evening. From the moment Patricia brought that stinking lamb into the house, to Nicole demanding I serve her, to Patricia winding up her arm and hurling that ceramic bowl directly at my face while screaming at me.”
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Ethan smirked, the shadow of exhaustion lifting from his features. “And the audio?”
“Turn the volume all the way up,” I smiled coldly. “Let’s show the whole town what a doting grandmother Patricia really is.”
