REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 94: Chapter 94

Mount Up, Mama
The morning we prepped for the mountain felt like gearing up for a military operation—if said military was powered by espresso, chaos, and a suspicious amount of lip gloss.
The kids were squared away first, obviously. Because no amount of ancient family secrets, mafia blackmail, or ghostly mountaintop revelations could derail responsible parenting. We handed over detailed grocery lists to the hotel concierge and had the nannies prepped like they were running a daycare bootcamp.
The fridge in their suite was stacked with kid-approved foods: dinosaur-shaped nuggets, apple slices, boxed mac and cheese, gummy bears from three different countries (because Jaya was in her “imported sweets only” phase), and enough yogurt pouches to feed a small school district.
Toys were ordered online and arrived via drone delivery because, of course they did. Princess dollhouses, dragon figurines, a model space station, and an entire trunk of glittery art supplies. Maya tried to act disinterested but smuggled the watercolor set into her backpack anyway.
I gave the head nanny a serious look. “Do not let them watch the cooking channel again. Jaya nearly started a fire last time trying to flambé cereal.”
She nodded like a war general. “They will be safe. And fed. And entertained. Go do what you must.”
And that’s when the real prep began.
The Packing Scene, a.k.a. “Ocean’s Mama Eleven”
I stared at my duffel bag like it was the Ark of the Covenant. Inside:
Tactical gear in sleek black—refitted to my new not-extra-large size, thank you gym squats.
Night vision goggles I borrowed from Joe and definitely wasn’t giving back.
A mini toolkit with a crowbar, lock picks, and a folding shovel.
Protein bars, backup chocolate, and emergency hot sauce.
Fancy expensive military-grade phone with encrypted messaging and a satellite ping so good it could find WiFi on the moon.
Portable camping stove.
High-calorie snacks disguised as cookies.
Waterproof maps, two flashlights, a bottle of dry shampoo, and my grandmother’s lucky rosary.
And yes, sexy undies. Because I refuse to face ancestral trauma in granny briefs.
Jhing Jhing packed like she was prepping for a runway shoot at a crime scene.
Her bag? Camouflage and chaos. It held:
MAC palettes in jungle camo.
Waterproof mascara.
A collapsible tripod for selfie lighting.
Five different shades of nude lipsticks (“in case we need to negotiate with ghosts”).
Two knives.
One bottle of fancy facial mist she swore doubled as pepper spray.
And an entire pouch labeled “IN CASE I NEED TO SEDUCE INFORMATION OUT OF SOMEONE.” I didn’t ask.
Mylene? A walking contradiction of luxury and vengeance.
She brought:
Red lipstick sharp enough to count as a weapon.
A snakeskin flask filled with iced matcha.
Compact drone surveillance rig shaped like a cosmetic case.
Silk gloves. Not practical, but fabulous.
A handwritten list of ex-boyfriends who owed her favors.
And a locket with her cat’s photo, “just for courage.”
Joe showed up looking like a catalog ad for ‘Tired, Grumpy, Tactical Dad.’
Cargo pants. Beard. Military boots. Kevlar vest.
No nonsense.
Except, of course, for the three elite mercs he brought along who clearly took their fashion cues from a BBQ-themed boy band:
Hawaiian shirts.
Combat boots.
One had a man bun and a machete.
Another chewed gum like it was personal.
The third winked at me and got a glare sharp enough to cut concrete.
“Are we... doing stealth?” I asked, gesturing to their shirts.
“They said ‘blend in at a hotel’,” Joe muttered, exasperated.
“Right. And they chose ‘divorced dad at Disney World.’ Got it.”
We loaded up the two black SUVs like we were prepping for a covert dessert war—every crevice packed with gear, caffeine, and enough sass to power a medium-sized city.
As I zipped up my jacket and tucked a tiny vial of glitter into my boot (don’t ask why, just respect it), I looked at my team—these ridiculous, brave, beautiful people. My found family of chaos and justice.
“Mamas,” I said, raising my travel thermos, “we don’t just climb mountains. We make them move.”
Mylene clinked her wine bottle to my mug. “To secrets, revenge, and contour that doesn’t quit.”
Jhing Jhing winked behind her aviators. “And to finding the truth, one designer bootstep at a time.”
Joe nodded. “And maybe not dying?”
“Sure,” I said. “That too.”
And with that, we hit the road—toward mist-covered trails, buried lies, and the ghosts that refused to stay dead.
Next stop: the mountain.
Where everything began.
Where everything would end.
Two SUVs. Seven adults. One mission. And more blush than a Sephora sale bin.
We started at dawn because Joe insisted on “early start, fewer witnesses.” Sure. What he meant was “let’s all be miserable in fresh sunlight before coffee has worked.”
The SUVs roared down the highway like judgmental dragons on a revenge arc. Mine was filled with tactical bags, espresso shots in insulated mugs, and the dulcet screams of Jhing Jhing trying to fix her eyeliner during a sharp turn. In the other, Mylene played DJ and changed the vibe every five minutes—from crime podcast to reggaeton to K-pop before announcing she “needed Taylor Swift to emotionally prepare for this kind of trauma.”
I drove. Joe sat up front, staring at the GPS like it owed him money.
In the back, Jhing Jhing applied waterproof blush with surgical precision.
"Why are you wearing highlighter on a mountain trek?" I asked.
“In case we find treasure. Or bandits. I need to look like a rich damsel worth kidnapping.”
“I can’t tell if that’s genius or deeply concerning.”
She shrugged. “Why not both?”