Alice has spent years building her book collection, each one a piece of her heart. But when her cousin destroys her most prized novel and her aunt refuses to pay, Wren decides she won’t let her daughter’s pain slide. A lawsuit, a social fallout, and a perfectly executed revenge later, justice is served… poetically.
Alice loved books since she was five years old. I mean, my child collects them the way some kids collect stuffed animals or trophies. Each and every one was a treasured little piece of her world. Now, at 16, that love has grown even stronger.
And when she wasn’t reading? The girl was saving up for her next book haul, carefully stacking each new addition on the shelves in her room.
As her mother, I couldn’t have been prouder. I studied English literature in college, so this was everything I ever wanted for my child: to love something as much as I did.
It was our shared love language.
“This is nice, Mom,” Alice said to me one day when we were sitting in the living room, absorbed in our own worlds.
“What is, sweet girl?” I asked.
“That we can be here together but also lost in our own worlds. I love it.” She smiled at me with genuine love and appreciation in her eyes.
I was downstairs with my sister, Vivian, when it happened.
It wasn’t any special day. Vivian and her 13-year-old daughter, Sienna, came over for tea and cake, just wanting to spend the afternoon together.
After a bit, Sienna excused herself to go to the bathroom upstairs. I should have known something was wrong when she was away for at least ten minutes.
But the moment Alice got home from her shift at the coffee shop, everything changed.
“Hi, Mom! Hi, Aunt Viv!” she said as she got in and kicked off her boots. “I’m just going to change out of my uniform, and I’ll be right back.”
“Sure, darling,” I said. “Sienna is upstairs, so don’t be alarmed if you hear shuffling in the bathroom.”
Alice laughed and went upstairs, and there was silence for all of five minutes.
Then the scream.
I ran, skipping stairs as I went. My stomach dropped before I even walked into her room.
Alice was standing in the middle of her room, her hands trembling, her breath coming in short gasps. Around her, pages fluttered like fallen leaves. The glossy cover of her special edition of Wuthering Heights lay discarded, bent in half, the spine completely broken.
And there, standing amid the destruction, was Sienna. Arms crossed. Smirking.
“What the actual…” My voice came out strangled, caught between rage and disbelief.
Alice looked at me, her entire body caving into itself. “Mom,” she whispered, and that one word shattered me.
“Vivian!” I screamed for my sister.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Wren,” Vivian sighed when she came upstairs. Her eyes flicked lazily over the mess. “It’s just some books. Did the cat get in here?”
Just. Some. Books.
Alice made a sound, something between a sob and a gasp.
“Did you do this?” I turned to Sienna.
“Yeah,” she shrugged. No hesitation. No guilt. Nothing.
“Apologize. Now, Sienna,” I snapped.
“Sorry,” Sienna said, rolling her eyes.
“I hope you know that you’re reimbursing us, Vivian. That special edition alone was…”
My sister interrupted me by scoffing loudly. “Oh, come on, Wren. Sienna is thirteen! She’s a kid. Kids make mistakes, you know that. Lord knows you made enough mistakes as a kid.”
Alice let out a sob and bolted from the room.
That was the moment I decided I wouldn’t let this go.
While Vivian laughed off my demands for reimbursement, I got to work. I cataloged every destroyed book, cross-referencing market values. By the time I was done, the total had come to $2,300.
I sent Vivian an invoice for the damaged goods. She left me on read.
Then, I moved on to step two: small claims court. The ruling was swift — Vivian owed us the full amount.
But that was just the beginning.
I posted the entire story (factually, with photos) to our local Facebook parenting group. The post exploded. Book lovers and parents were outraged. Vivian’s image as the “perfect mother” took a massive hit.
She called me crying, “You’re hurting me, Wren.”
“You and Sienna hurt my child first,” I replied.
To top it off, my best friend Sarah (who worked in HR at Vivian’s company) mentioned that the Facebook drama had cost Vivian a big promotion she was up for — one that required “integrity and accountability.”
Guess who didn’t get the promotion?
Vivian eventually paid the $2,300. Our relationship is still strained, but I don’t regret standing up for my daughter. Some lessons have to be learned the hard way.
