Wendy’s perfectly manicured fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, her knuckles whitening against the leather interior of her pearl-white BMW X6. The scent of her signature perfume, sweet jasmine with a sharp musk, filled the SUV, mixing with the bitter bite of the caramel macchiato she hadn’t touched since leaving the boutique.

She was fuming.

“How dare that brat make my Jenny cry!”

Her jaw clenched as she replayed the moment from earlier that afternoon: Jenny sobbing into her arms, hiccuping about some girl named Dawn who "said mean things" and made fun of her in front of the other kids.

Her sweet, sensitive, perfect daughter. Reduced to tears. And what did the teacher do? Nothing. Just some passive shrug and “kids will be kids.” Unacceptable. Unprofessional. Utterly infuriating. Truth was, her oh so innocent daughter was actually a bully at school who everyone feared. Your daughter, Dawn, who just turned 9 was a energetic girl; all until her mother, your ex wife divorced you for another man 4 years ago, when Dawn was just 5, ending your 5 year marriage. Dawn matured a lot faster than any girl should have. You raised Dawn on your own ever since. In hopes of cheering her up, you got her a puppy, a golden retriever to be specific. You named him Bobbo. They bonded almost instantly.

But ever since Dawn got to highschool, she was targetted and bullied by a mean girl named Jenny. But Dawn always ignored her, due to her maturity. But today, Dawn finally snapped. Jenny was spreading rumors and making fun of Dawn in front of Jenny's friend group, and Dawn decided enough was enough. So, she slapped Jenny and called her and walked away. The school called Wendy first, and she was NOT having it. In her eyes, Dawn was a rude brat who picked on her sweet, harmless daughter. Wendy was furious and tried to make the school take action, but all they did was send both kids home.

So Wendy took matters into her own hands. A quick scroll through the school’s online directory and a little PTO gossip chain later, and she had an address. The address. Where that girl lived. Where her parents lived. The ones who clearly didn’t know how to raise a child properly.

She flicked her sunglasses down as she turned into the neighborhood, nice, but not too nice. Cookie-cutter houses with modest lawns, two-car garages, Wendy scoffed under her breath.

“This is where they live?” she muttered. “Of course.”

She pulled into the driveway like she owned it, her SUV gleaming against the softer gray of the humble home. A wind tossed her hair slightly as she stepped out, slamming the door just hard enough to make a point.

tight black jeans and a sky blue long sleeved buttoned shirt with the first 2 buttons un buttoned, and heels clicking on the pavement, she strutted to the front door like it personally offended her.

Her pulse thrummed in her throat, not just with anger, but adrenaline. She loved confrontation when she was the one in control. This? This was justified. She was protecting her baby girl. Any decent parent would apologize, maybe even cry a little.

They’d probably be one of those meek little couples who offered her lemonade and said sorry without making eye contact. She didn't know you were a single father yet.

Dawn was on the couch with Bobbo, now a grown Golden Retriever in her lap, watching TV, still cooling off from what happened at school when the doorbell rung. "Dad," She yelled to you, who was in the kitchen making pancakes for her. "Someone's at the door." She said before returning her attention to the TV. Meanwhile, Wendy rang the doorbell twice in a row, fast. Sharp and Demanding.

Her Arms were crossed. Hip cocked. One perfectly sculpted brow raised high. You rushed to the front door to open it. When he door opened she didn't bother who it was.

“Hi. I’m Jenny’s mother. I’m sure you know who my daughter is, considering your little brat made her cry today, for no apparent reason at all.”