She Tried to Sabotage My Prom Night for Her Son — But Karma Showed Up With a Camera
When I was seven, my mom disappeared — no note, no goodbye. Just… gone. My dad, Richard, did his best. He was a gentle man, but grief made him clumsy. Dinners came from boxes, hugs felt like question marks. He remarried a year later. Then again. And then came Leslie, wife number three. I was fifteen.
Leslie walked in with casseroles, a plastic smile, and her son Stuart — my age, but the polar opposite of me. She didn’t try to fit into our lives. She replaced them. Suddenly, my clothes were bargain-bin. My portions smaller. Her praise? Reserved only for Stuart.
To my dad, she was sugar-sweet. When he left the room, ice. I tried to speak up, but she always flipped the script:
“Tom’s just acting out for attention.”
By prom season, I’d learned to stay quiet. College was coming, and with it, escape. Still, one thing made me light up: Taylor. The girl who passed me notes with doodled hearts, who laughed at my dumb jokes, who said “yes” to prom with a smile that made everything feel lighter.
Dad, in a rare bonding moment, took me suit shopping. I chose navy. Stuart picked charcoal. Didn’t matter to me — I was just happy.
Until prom day.
I came home to find my suit shredded. Literally. Cut to ribbons.
Leslie said it was an accident.
“I ran it over with the lawnmower,” she claimed, as if suits just wander into the yard.
Only mine, of course. Stuart’s was hanging pristine. And, like always, Dad believed her.
But luck — or fate — stepped in.
Mrs. Elizaveta, our sweet neighbor, had been recording birds in her backyard. And without meaning to, she caught everything on camera:
Leslie, calmly laying my suit on the lawn… and mowing right over it. No hesitation. No guilt.
I sent the video to Dad. One hour later, he walked into my room, silent. He took Stuart’s suit from the closet and handed it to me.
“Put it on, Son,” he said. “Call a cab. Go enjoy your night.”
Leslie screamed. Stuart sulked.
Dad said nothing.
The suit fit perfectly. Taylor lit up when she saw me.
“You clean up nice,” she said, fixing my crooked tie. She didn’t ask questions. She just held my hand. And we danced.
When I came home, the house was still. Quiet.
Boxes lined the hall. Stuart’s room? Empty. Leslie’s stuff? Gone.
Dad sat in the kitchen, one hand wrapped around a beer, the other on a box of her things.
“She’s gone,” he said. “I knew. I just didn’t want to believe it.”
He looked up at me — really looked.
“No more stepmoms. No more pretending. Just me. Being your dad.”
He reached out his hand. And this time, I took it.
People think revenge is loud.
But sometimes, it’s quiet. A camera. A lawnmower. A broken lie exposed.
A navy suit passed to you in silence.
And someone finally saying: “I’m sorry.”
I think we’re going to be okay.
