Chapter 6 - The Flying Monkeys
The screen of my phone lit up with a text message from a number belonging to Megan’s mother, Brenda.
“I heard about the disgusting way you treated my daughter last night,” the message read, dripping with characteristic maternal fury. “After everything Megan has done for you over the last twelve years, you publicly humiliated her over a harmless misunderstanding just to satisfy your own sick jealousy. I raised my daughter to be confident, and you tore her down because you couldn't handle attention being on anyone but yourself. I expected better from you.”
I stared at the screen, a strange mix of pity and cold detachment washing over me. Brenda had spent Megan’s entire life rescuing her from the consequences of her own actions, treating her like an fragile porcelain doll who could do no wrong. It was no mystery where Megan had learned to weaponize victimhood.
I turned the phone around and laid it flat on the dining table, screen-up, so Sarah, Jessica, and Olivia could read it.
Jessica choked back a laugh. "Are you kidding me? Did Megan write that text herself and send it from her mom's phone, or is Brenda genuinely delusional?"
"Probably a fifty-fifty split," Olivia remarked calmly, taking a sip of her coffee. "Megan has been running to her parents every time she faces the slightest accountability since we were in high school. They think she's a saint."
"What are you going to reply?" Sarah asked, looking at me.
"Nothing," I said, picking up my mug. "If I reply, Brenda will screenshot my response, send it to Megan, and they'll use it as fresh fuel for their internet pity party. Silence is the one thing narcissists don't know how to handle."
"Good," Jessica nodded approvingly. "Let them scream into the void."
We spent the rest of the afternoon talking about everything except Megan. For the first time in years, our gathering wasn't dominated by post-mortems of Megan’s latest drama, critiques of her wardrobe, or frantic attempts to keep her happy. We laughed, we shared real stories, and we built a genuine connection based on mutual respect rather than fear of exclusion.
When the girls finally left around 3:00 PM, Daniel came down from the home office where he had been working on a project. He walked into the kitchen, wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, and rested his chin on my shoulder.
"How did the coffee date go?" he asked softly.
"Quiet," I smiled, leaning back against his chest. "In the best way possible. No drama, no walking on eggshells, just real conversation."
Daniel kissed the side of my head. "Good. Because I have something to tell you."
I turned around in his embrace, looking up at him. "What is it?"
"I called Ryan this morning," Daniel said. "After he checked out of his hotel. We talked for an hour."
My eyes widened slightly. "How is he?"
"Relieved," Daniel said, a small smile touching his lips. "Exhausted, but a massive weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He told me Megan spent the entire car ride home last night screaming at him, calling him a traitor for not backing her up at the restaurant. When he told her he was done—that he was filing for divorce—she threw her phone out the passenger window."
I let out a low whistle. "She really is unraveling."
"When you strip away someone's ability to manipulate people and play the victim, they have nothing left," Daniel said wisely. "Ryan is staying with his brother for a few days while he gets his ducks in a row. He wanted me to tell you thank you."
"Thank me? For what?"
"For standing your ground last night," Daniel said, looking into my eyes with absolute sincerity. "If you hadn't called out her bluff and exposed her hypocrisy right there at the table, Ryan and I both would still be trapped in her orbit, pretending everything was fine. You gave us both a way out."
I reached up, gently cupping his cheek with my hand. "We got out together, Daniel. That's what marriage is supposed to be."
We thought the storm was finally passing. We thought Megan would retreat into her parents' house, lick her wounds, and eventually find a new target for her endless need for drama.
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We were dangerously wrong.
Megan wasn't going to slink away quietly. Her ego had suffered a fatal blow in front of thirty people, and a narcissist backed into a corner doesn't retreat—they launch a scorched-earth campaign. And her next move wasn't going to be online. It was going to hit us right where we lived.
