“Did the decoration guy yell at you?” Lily asked. “No,” I said, smiling faintly. “But he definitely messed with the wrong mom.” Later that day, I stood in my kitchen, staring out the window. The eggs had dried into stubborn streaks, the toilet paper sagged like a surrender flag. I was too tired to cry, too wound up to sleep. Instead, I picked up my phone and began documenting everything. Photos, videos, timestamps — I recorded every detail of the vandalism: the yolk pooled near the tires, the toilet paper tangled on the mirrors, the broken shells across the driveway. I narrated everything in a calm voice, steadying myself as if I were preparing evidence for a serious investigation.Continue reading…
