I started packing every luxury item. Every designer handbag. Every piece of jewelry. Her favorite perfumes. Her silk pajamas. Her collection of face masks that promised to “reverse time” but clearly couldn’t reverse bad decisions.
I even packed her heated eyelash curler. Who heats their eyelashes? Rich people who don’t do their own childcare, apparently.
I folded everything neatly because chaos hits harder when it’s organized. When all four suitcases were full, I locked them with combination codes only I knew.
Then I hauled them downstairs one by one and lined them up in the living room like soldiers waiting for inspection.
I started packing every luxury item.
I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote: “To reclaim your treasures, report to Karma.” I even drew a little smiley face. I’m petty, but I’m polite about it. Then I sat down on the couch with a cup of tea and waited.
Lydia walked in two hours later, all smiles and sunshine, carrying shopping bags from stores I couldn’t afford even during a sale.
“Olivia, sweetie!” she called out in that sugary voice. “Thanks so much for watching the twins! I just had a few errands to run.”
Then I sat down on the couch with a cup of tea and waited.
A few errands. Six hours. Sure. Olivia, sitting on the floor with ice on her shoulder, didn’t respond. That’s when Lydia noticed me sitting on the couch.
“Oh! Hi, Daisy!” She laughed nervously. “I didn’t know you were coming by.”
“Clearly,” I said calmly, taking a slow sip of tea.
Then, her eyes landed on the four suitcases lined up in the middle of the living room. She froze.
Her face went through about five different emotions in three seconds. Confusion. Recognition. Panic. Anger.
“I didn’t know you were coming by.”
And finally, the early stages of understanding that she’d messed with the wrong grandmother.
“What’s… what’s going on?”
I took another sip of tea. “Karma’s going on!”
That was the moment Lydia realized something had shifted, and she wasn’t in control anymore.
She ran upstairs. I heard her closet doors slam open, drawers being yanked, footsteps pounding like a panicked raccoon. Then she came barreling down the stairs, face red, voice shrill.
“Karma’s going on!”
“WHERE are my things?!”
“Locked up,” I said pleasantly, gesturing to the suitcases like I was presenting prizes on a game show. “You can earn them back. Or you can leave with whatever dignity you haven’t already ruined.”
“You can’t just… this is theft!”
“Is it?” I tilted my head. “Because I’m pretty sure forcing a 15-year-old with a fractured shoulder to babysit while you go bar-hopping is child endangerment. Should we call the police and compare charges? I’ll wait.”
“You can earn them back.”
Lydia’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish.
“What do I have to do?” she finally whispered.
I smiled. “You’re going to take care of this house. And those twins. And Olivia. Without complaining. Without delegating. Without disappearing for ‘me time.'”
“For how long?”
“Four days. The same amount of time Scott’s gone. If you can manage that, you get your things back.”
“What do I have to do?”
She looked like she wanted to argue, but she was outmatched. She thought the punishment would be loud. She had no idea it would be exhausting.
Day one started at six in the morning. I showed up with pots and pans, clanging them cheerfully in the kitchen like the Grinch on Christmas morning. Lydia stumbled downstairs, bleary-eyed and furious.
“Good morning!” I said brightly. “Twins are awake. Breakfast won’t make itself. Also, one of them has already thrown up.”
Day one started at six in the morning.
She burned the toast. Spilled orange juice. One twin threw Cheerios at her head. The other screamed because his banana was “broken.” Apparently, breaking a banana in half is a war crime when you’re two.
Day two was worse. A diaper blowout of epic proportions sent Lydia gagging into the kitchen sink.
“Make sure you get it all. It’s in the folds,” I offered.
She glared at me with a look that could melt steel. One twin bit her finger. The other smeared yogurt in her hair.
“This is insane,” she muttered, close to tears. “I gave birth to toddlers, not wild raccoons!”
Day two was worse.
“Welcome to parenting!” I said, sipping my coffee. “By the way, that’s Greek yogurt. Very moisturizing. You’re welcome.”
On day three, she tried to vacuum while holding a toddler throwing tantrums. I sat on the couch and clapped slowly, like it was performance art.
“Beautiful form, Lydia. Really leaning into the struggle.”
At one point, she just sat on the floor and stared at the wall while one twin pulled her hair and the other tried to eat a crayon.
“Welcome to parenting!”
“You okay there?” I asked.
“I don’t know anymore.”
By day four, Lydia wasn’t angry anymore. She was wearing a stained hoodie, hair in a limp bun, dried oatmeal on her shoulder. She was dragging herself through the house like a zombie.