By morning, her phone was overwhelmed. Requests poured in from people she barely knew, each more ridiculous than the last. One man wanted his ex-wife’s photo skewered to a goose. A local blogger shared the post, dubbing her “the Picasso of poultry.”
At ten sharp, Margot stormed into our house, cheeks blazing. “Elise! How dare you! People think I’ve lost my mind. Someone even asked for a chicken with their cat’s face!”
I sipped my coffee calmly. “Well, you did want to share your creativity. I just helped you find an audience.”
Henrik, standing by the door, finally spoke. “Mother, you humiliated her first. You’re lucky she didn’t turn it into a news story.”
Margot sputtered, glared at us both, and left in a huff. For weeks afterward, she was known around town as “the turkey lady.” Invitations dwindled. Her reign of petty sabotage quieted, though she never admitted defeat.
As for me, every Thanksgiving since has carried a mischievous glow. Whenever I see that photo in my camera roll, I remember the lesson: sometimes the sweetest revenge is to let someone’s own cruelty shine so brightly the whole world can see it.
