REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 61: Chapter 61

“No,” I replied, sipping dramatically. “We’re done.”
He took a step forward. Big mistake.
I didn’t wait.
I threw the mug straight at him—not the cup, mind you, the contents—scalding-hot revenge roast straight to the face. He screamed like a banshee in heat.
Then, I kicked him so hard where the sun didn't shine, the entire male population winced telepathically.
He bent over like a folding chair. But I wasn’t done. Not today. Not ever.
I punched him so hard, POW! the air left the room and his spirit nearly left his body. He collapsed like a dropped lasagna—sloppy, loud, and embarrassing.
That’s when the front door flew open.
“YAAAAS!” Jhing Jhing screamed, standing there like a cheerleader of chaos with a Bluetooth headset on. “She did it! She landed the punch! Mylene—bring popcorn! And the twins! It’s go-time!”
And Mylene? She burst in like a Marvel villain in Louboutins holding popcorn, juice boxes, and two screaming toddlers dressed like green Pikachu and a mini Elon Musk with pink make up.
“Let the record show,” she said dramatically, tossing a kernel into her mouth, “that this man deserved it.”
Ray, lying there with one eye open and half his soul disconnected from the Wi-Fi of life, whimpered.
Then, the police showed up—again.
Our favorite duo: Officer Marko, who lowkey had a crush on Jhing Jhing, and Officer Lizal, who never smiled unless someone got arrested.
They looked at me. Looked at Ray.
Saw the bruises. Saw the mess.
Officer Mark shrugged. “He drunk again?”
“Like a fermented goat,” I said.
“Alright, in the car, sir,” Officer Lizal said, slapping cuffs on Ray like it was her cardio routine. “Don’t cry. You did this to yourself.”
As they dragged him out, I handed him a neatly folded stack of divorce papers. Fresh. Legal. Ruthless.
“I’ve had this ready for weeks,” I said. “It has tabs and everything.”
“I’ve changed,” he croaked. “You’ll see…”
“I did see,” I said coldly, “and I chose violence.”
He didn’t sign it. Of course he didn’t. He promised again. Vowed to “be better.” To “win me back.” To “stop mixing gin with sadness.”
But fate said, no thanks.
Because the next day—bam.
News broke.
Ray… was hit by a truck. A big one. With a sticker that read: “Honk if you love karma.”
I was livid. Not because he died. But because he died before signing the damn papers.
Now I was stuck organizing a burial for a man I didn’t even like. And of course, the universe had a sense of drama because it rained. Heavily. Like a scene from a sad indie movie no one wanted.
People showed up. Cried fake tears. One relative tried to hit on me while I held an umbrella. Another aunt accused me of turning Ray gay (he wasn’t, just stupid).
I stood there, under the storm clouds, mascara intact, looking every bit like a widow from a telenovela who secretly owned a yacht full of secrets.
And then, it was over. We went back home. To my apartment.
To my girls. And we partied. I mean full-blown celebration.
There was karaoke, champagne, juice boxes, fried chicken, a shirtless man named Brun who Jhing Jhing hired for “emotional support,” and a surprise visit from the chaos twins who tied balloons to my ceiling fan and made it snow glitter.
We danced. We laughed. Someone (me) peed a little while laughing too hard during Maya’s “Ray was a Cockroach” song.
And that night, as the city lights blinked outside and laughter echoed through my living room, I whispered to myself—
“I am Leon Darrow. I am death. I am the destroyer.”
And the world, my darling, had just been warned.
Then came Thanksgiving.
The only thing I knew about it was:
It involved turkey and hidden eggs.
People cry and give thanks for stuff they secretly hate.
Pilgrims? Maybe? Or gifts exchanged.
There’s pie. Many pies. Possibly a cult?
I don't celebrate Thanksgiving. I celebrate more important things.
Like the day I rerouted gold from Mongolia to the Philippines and personally greeted it in heels and a power suit while the customs officer cried out of confusion and awe. Now that was a holiday.
But here in the land of suburban expectations and grocery wars, I was a fish out of gravy. The whole country suddenly acted like roasted birds were sacred gods and mashed potatoes could fix generational trauma and more regrets.
So naturally, I called Mylene.
Because if anyone knew how to out-shop a midlife crisis and cook a turkey big enough to feed both our enemies and their mothers, it was her.
She showed up wearing sunglasses indoors, pushing a cart like it was a Formula One car. “We need a turkey the size of Alec’s ego,” she declared, already tossing things into the cart like she was in a televised supermarket sweep.
Me? I was clueless.
“What’s a giblet?” I asked, staring at a package that looked like organ donation leftovers.
“Don’t ask. Just throw it in,” she said. “We’ll make someone’s uncle eat it.”
And so we began our shopping spree.