At last, I saw her.
She was the one, the woman behind those disgraceful messages, her smug face confirming everything.
I locked eyes with her, my glare filled with the hatred she had ignited. Before she could even open her mouth, I raised my hand and struck her, the slap echoing through the room.
Slap!
A bright red print formed on her pale cheek.
“How dare you hit me?” she shrieked, shocked and scrambling to keep her composure.
Her colleagues gasped, some threatening to call the police, their voices high with indignation.
But I was unfazed, every ounce of my frustration fueling my response.
“Why did I hit you?” I asked, my voice steady and unwavering. “Because I’m your mother, of course! Since you insist on calling my husband ‘Daddy,’ it only makes sense for me to be your mother!”
"I'm here to teach my unruly daughter a lesson! Who gave her the audacity to meddle in another woman's marriage?" I announced loudly, my voice laced with disdain.
The mistress froze, her face registering shock and confusion.
"W-who are you?" she stammered, her confidence momentarily faltering.
I let out a mocking laugh.