My Friend Talked Trash about My Daughter, So I Made Her Regret It

When lifelong friends Eleanor and Lucy clash over a shocking revelation about their children’s secret relationship, their Monday gatherings take a tense turn. As buried insecurities and long-held grudges surface, their bond faces the ultimate test of loyalty and forgiveness.

Each Monday, we gather at my house with my friends of 55 years, finally resting and chatting after babysitting our grandkids. This week, it was just Lucy and me, savoring the peace.

Suddenly, Lucy burst out, “I’m mad as hell! I’ve been trying to introduce my Barney to that nurse for a year. My dear son decided to do everything on his own. Can you imagine, I found this rag at his apartment?!”

I nearly choked on my tea. I knew those clothes! Lucy waved a red silk shirt and a headband.

“Who wears this? A woman of easy virtue? Oh, God, some girl from the streets has ensnared my son!”

I felt dizzy. Those were 100% my daughter’s clothes! That gorgeous red silk shirt and headband were a gift from me.

“She doesn’t deserve my son. Period. And be sure, I’ll get rid of her!” Lucy declared.

While Lucy was plotting her next move, I created my own plan to teach her a lesson for insulting my daughter.

“Lucy, maybe there’s an explanation. Barney’s a grown man, after all,” I said.

Lucy huffed. “Explanation? My Barney has poor taste in women, clearly!”

“Don’t you think you’re being harsh? You don’t know her,” I challenged.

“Harsh? Protecting my son isn’t harsh!” she snapped.

“Lucy, you’re jumping to conclusions,” I argued. “You don’t even know who she is.”

“I don’t need to know her! Look at these clothes. They scream trouble,” Lucy insisted.

That evening, after everyone had left, I sat down with my daughter, Emily, in the living room. The warmth of the evening sun filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on her face.

“Emily,” I began gently, “can we talk about something?”

She looked up from her book, curiosity in her eyes. “Sure, Mom. What’s up?”

Weeks passed, and Paul’s demeanor only grew colder. Grandma Eleanor tried to hide the hurt, but I could see it in her eyes, the way she clutched her paintbrushes like lifelines.