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.
