Tiny Body, Big Revenge: The Stepmother Gets Schooled

There were a bunch of colorful pill containers, but I couldn't recognize a single one of them.

I looked left, then right, but none of them seemed to be painkillers.

Ms. Woodard noticed my scrunched-up face and quickly asked with a smile, "Penny, dear, why are you digging through the medicine storage box?"

Looking up at her, I asked, "Ms. Woodard, which one is the painkiller?"

At my words, Ms. Woodard instantly tensed up. She hurriedly scooped me up from the floor, feeling my forehead and palms in concern.

"What's wrong, dear? Are you feeling unwell?"

I shook my head meekly. "I'm not sick, but my daughter's birthday is today. I need to send her some painkillers!"

Thinking that I was talking about one of my dolls, Ms. Woodard gently corrected me. "Sweetheart, we eat cake on birthdays, not painkillers."

Hearing that, I smacked my head in sudden realization. Right! I shouldn't just be giving my daughter painkillers for her birthday. I should give her a cake and some candy, too.

That way, the medicine wouldn't taste so bad.

Without delay, I asked Ms. Woodard to order a cute little cake for me. Though she had no idea what I was up to, she went ahead and placed the order anyway.

I chose an adorable bunny cake, bought two boxes of painkillers for my daughter, then grabbed some of my favorite toffee—the ones I had been saving and couldn't bear to eat myself.

I placed everything in a pretty pink bag and had the delivery guy take it to my daughter's school.

"My dear sweetheart, I prepared lots of gifts for you. Remember to eat a piece of candy after your medicine so it won't leave a bad taste in your mouth. Happy birthday!"

After the delivery was made, I asked the delivery guy, "Sir, is my daughter okay?"

He let out a small sigh.

"That young lady is covered in bruises. It's as if she's been abused. Her clothes are covered in patches, too. She looks so pale and pitiful."

The more I listened to his words, the more my heart ached. After all, what mother wouldn't worry about her daughter?

Soon after, my daughter sent me a picture of her eating the cake. She texted, "Thank you. This is the first time I've had cake on my birthday since my mom passed away. It's really good, and the candy is very sweet."

"It's okay, sweetheart. From now on, I will make sure you have cake on every birthday!"

"Thank you, Mom," came her reply.

I cheerfully picked up my phone and started searching the internet for tips on raising a daughter.

According to what I read online, a daughter should be brought up in luxury and be given the most wonderful things in the world.

As I bobbed my head in sudden enlightenment, my gaze settled on the pink piggy bank in the corner of my room.

…

When Mom walked into my room with a strawberry milkshake in hand, I was busy smashing my beloved piggy bank with a tiny hammer.

The coins rolled and bounced across the carpet like popping candy. Bending down, I picked them up one at a time.

"This one will be for buying candy for my daughter… This one will be for a pretty dress… I'll use this one to buy her the newest toy available… And this one will be for Dad so that he'll teach that stepmom of hers a lesson!"

Leaning against the wall, Mom smiled as she watched me mumble to myself.

"Penny, sweetheart, why did you smash your favorite piggy bank? Is there a new toy you want to buy?"

I hugged her excitedly, exclaiming, "I have a daughter now. Of course I have to take care of her!"

Mom looked shocked by my words. "When did you get a daughter?"

I showed her my phone proudly, pointing at the screen full of messages. "I found her myself. She's a pitiful thing who doesn't have a mom and gets bullied by her stepmom."