Boom. I said it. Loud and proud. And the look on her face? Priceless.
She scoffed like a villain in a teen drama. Tossed her perfectly curled blonde hair over her shoulder and let out the fakest laugh I’ve ever heard.
“Me? Intimidated by a kid?” she said, eyes narrowing. “Don’t make me laugh, child.
She didn’t stop there.
Of course she didn’t.
Because women like her never do. Women like her — the perfect, blonde, icy wife with the yoga body and the botoxed forehead — they always feel like they’ve got more to say. Like the world asked for their opinion. Like someone handed them a mic and begged for their judgment.
She folded her arms under her suspiciously perky boobs and tilted her head again like she was trying to figure out whether to insult me with sugar or spit.
“My husband is a
