REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 77: Chapter 77

Joe’s Intel (Again)
My phone buzzed.
Joe.
No greeting. Just urgency in his voice. “I went through Alec’s private journals. All of it. Passwords were ridiculous—your birthday, but written in Morse code. The guy was a sentimental paranoid.”
“And?”
“There was more than treasure. The vault? It wasn’t just storage. It was the family’s black file archive. Every scandal, every betrayal. Think of it as your family’s sin library.”
I sat up straighter.
“Alec was obsessed,” Joe continued. “He thought if he found the vault, he could control the narrative. Reinvent the Darrow name. But he failed.”
“And now Dorothy wants to finish what he started.”
“She doesn’t want redemption, though. She wants leverage. Power. Secrets to buy loyalty, or ruin reputations.”
“Which means,” I said, breath cold, “she plans to use my family’s treasure and legacy to control my future.”
Joe’s voice dropped. “And we both know she’s not bluffing.”
The next few days passed in the eye of a storm—the calm that wasn’t really calm. Just silence… too much of it.
Well, except for the daily school war zone.
Each morning was a battlefield of mismatched socks, lunchbox diplomacy, and last-minute homework that suddenly appeared five minutes before the school van honked outside. The twins had declared a Cold War over who touched the last piece of pancake. Cookie barked like a manic drill sergeant. Maybe the dog had a trauma because it was now living in our flat and kept on barking when Mylene transferred it to their own.
And Jaya? She just sat there in her Peppa Pig pajamas, reading her “Peppa Goes to Hospital” book with the kind of quiet authority that suggested she could single-handedly command NATO if given the chance.
Once the whirlwind of “Bye, Mama!” and “He took my pencil!” vanished out the door, peace finally descended.
Well… peace with asterisks.
I buckled Jaya into her booster seat, Peppa in hand, and drove to Mylene’s flat, the one with way too many decorative pillows and a hallway that always smelled like vanilla and secrets. As usual, I didn’t even have to knock.
Mylene opened the door in oversized shades, a silk robe, and fuzzy slippers. “You’re late. I already made coffee and threatened my neighbor for vacuuming before 8 a.m.”
Inside, Jaya made herself right at home—sprawling on the living room rug with her book and some crayons. Cookie trotted in behind me and promptly fell asleep near the air purifier like she was having an existential crisis.
Mylene shouted over her shoulder, “JHIIIIIING!”
Jhing Jhing appeared seconds later wearing what could only be described as "boss lady with too much blush." She had a smoothie in one hand and false eyelashes clinging for dear life.
We gathered around the dining table—coffee, notes, nervous energy. Jaya hummed softly in the background as she narrated Peppa Pig’s hospital visit like it was Shakespeare.
I let out a slow breath. “I need to tell you something. About Dorothy.”
Both women straightened like I’d just offered front-row seats to a scandal.
I lied.
“I didn’t say this before because I didn’t want to drag you both into this.”
Mylene’s eyebrows climbed. “Into what?”
I lowered my voice. “Before Alec’s… suicide… he told Dorothy something about me. He made up a story—that I was obsessed with him. That I was chasing Darrow money. That I wanted to ruin him.”
Jhing Jhing blinked. “Wait. He told her that you were the stalker?”
I nodded. “Yes. That I wanted Darrow’s legacy.”
They were silent for a beat.
Then Mylene laughed—a dark, elegant, French villainess in a soap opera kind of laugh.
“Oh no, that skinny sack of man didn’t. Catherine’s body or not—you? Obsessed with him? Please. The man wore white socks with sandals and ate cereal with water.”
Jhing Jhing crossed herself dramatically. “Father, Son, and Holy Shopping Cart, that is some premium delulu energy.”
“Exactly,” I said, grim. “But Dorothy bought it. Or pretended to. And now she’s after me. Not just for blood. But for revenge. She thinks I took something from her.”
“She took your damn peace,” Mylene muttered, stirring her coffee like she was planning a homicide. “And she has the nerve to wear red nails? That’s an insult to color theory and justice.”
I gave her a sharp grin. “Which brings us to the plan.”
They leaned in—like spies in stilettos.
“We hit her where it hurts. Not physically—not yet. But her ego, her image, her obsession with being the ‘perfect Mrs. Darrow.’ We make her trip over her own heels.”
“Oooh.” Jhing Jhing clapped. “Sabotage with sparkle.”
“I like it,” Mylene said. “We moms don’t just raise kids. We raise hell.”
Operation Nail Polish and Espionage
We weren’t just sipping coffee and chatting about Peppa Pig anymore.
We were planning a counteroffensive that would make Jason Bourne cry in admiration. Operation Red Nails was officially launched at 10:42 AM, somewhere between Jaya spilling juice on her Peppa coloring book and Cookie vomiting on Mylene’s imported carpet. War always starts messy.
We laid out a real operation.
Mylene, in her leopard-print robe and murder-in-her-eyes energy, took charge like she’d been waiting her whole life for a personal vendetta.
“My mommy book club,” she said, taking a dainty sip of espresso, “was always a cover.”
I blinked. “A cover for…?”
“Intel. Gossip. Spying on affairs. You know—suburban survival.”
Jhing Jhing gasped. “Wait—that group that hosts cookie swap parties but somehow always knows who’s cheating on who, whose kid’s applying for what school, and whose husband isn’t really at CrossFit?”
Mylene gave a slow, proud nod. “We’ve been watching Dorothy for years. The only reason we didn’t take her down before was because the PTA elections were more dramatic.”
She whipped out a worn leather notebook. “Now. Dorothy’s movements, as of last week…”
She flipped pages like a forensic accountant. “Spa every Wednesday. Pilates on Thursday. Caviar brunch—unearned—on Sundays. And she just joined a private art appreciation club. Which means she’s either laundering money, sleeping with a gallery owner, or both.”
Jhing Jhing and I exchanged looks. Mylene was a terrifying flower. A weaponized orchid.
Then Jhing Jhing raised her hand like we were in a classroom.
“I volunteer.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Undercover beauty salon duty.”
Mylene nodded sagely. “Dangerous. Noble. Smells like acetone.”
Jhing Jhing placed her smoothie down with reverence. “Her nail artist goes to my cousin Trina’s Zumba class. I’ll be there. Deep cover. Fake name. Full acrylics.”
She pulled out a pink purse and snapped it open like it was James Bond’s briefcase.
Inside?
Lip gloss. A tiny taser. A laminated photo of Dorothy’s last known manicure. (I don't even want to ask.)
“I’ll know her next nail color before she does,” she declared.
We applauded. Jaya looked up and clapped too, though mostly because she thought we were playing.
“Yay, Auntie is the spy princess!” she squealed.
Me?
I wasn’t wearing a fuzzy robe or color-coded notebooks. But I had something far more dangerous.
Motivation.
And about ten years’ worth of buried rage.
Because Dorothy didn’t want revenge. She wanted history. She wanted the Darrow legacy. The vault Alec never found.
The one I hadn’t even known existed until a few days ago, when Joe called me with that gravel-voiced tone of his.
“Alec found something years back. A map. Thought it led to treasure left behind by the Darrow ancestors. But he never found it. And he told Dorothy.”
Of course he did. The man couldn’t keep his mouth shut unless it was full of red wine and self-pity.
Now Dorothy was circling that mystery like a hawk in red heels.
And I had to beat her there.
But Let’s Be Clear: This Wasn't Just About Gold.
It was about my name. My life. My peace. My right to exist in this body without being hunted by a power-hungry ex-wife of my brother, a dead man’s legacy, and a conspiracy that was starting to smell suspiciously like moldy aristocracy.
And yet—here we were.
Three women, one dog, one toddler with a Peppa Pig sticker stuck to her forehead, and a grudge hotter than the sun in Manila traffic.
Planning like real spies.
Jaya walked in with Cookie behind her and held up her coloring page.
“I made Peppa into you, Mama. See? She has angry eyes and big boots.”
“Aw, thanks, baby,” I said, ruffling her hair. “Is Peppa gonna fight bad people?”
“Duh,” Jaya replied. “She already punched the bad lady and took her sparkles.”
Mylene blinked at the page. “That’s… that’s actually quite symbolic.”
Jhing Jhing leaned over to squint at it. “Is that blood?”
“It’s strawberry jam,” Jaya said proudly. “But in the story, it’s for justice.”
Later That Night…
I was back home, pacing.
Joe was still investigating. And I was sketching old Darrow family crests on a napkin like a woman possessed. The crest Alec had tattooed near his neck? The same one the goons wore?
The truth was close. I could smell it in the air. In the way Dorothy was moving. The way she smiled in photos like she already won.
But she hadn’t.
She’d forgotten one thing.
You never mess with a mother who drinks her coffee black, fights kidnappers with cast iron pans, and lies to protect her friends with the skill of a lawyer in court.
She wanted war?
She’d get it.
With glitter bombs. Zumba intel. And espresso-powered vengeance.