At the break of dawn, a phone call pierced the morning stillness like a shocking jolt in the night. When the clock struck 5:03 AM, Margaret jumped awake, her heart pounding furiously. This hour was never associated with anything good.
She reached for her phone, noticing the unknown number flashing on the screen.
“Hello?” Her voice was heavy with sleep and dread.
“Is this Margaret Hale?” A male tone, official yet laced with urgency, echoed through the line.
“Yes. Who is calling?”
“This is Officer Miller from the county sheriff’s office. You need to come to the bus stop at Old Oak Road and Highway 9 immediately.”
“Why? Is… is it Emily? My daughter?”
“Just come, please.”
The drive felt terrifying. Margaret’s old Ford skidded twice, but she pressed the gas pedal down. Emily, her twenty-four-year-old daughter, married Brad Gable three years earlier. The Gables were part of the affluent elite who often treated others as mere possessions. Margaret had always loathed them, yet Emily loved her husband… or perhaps was too afraid to leave.
Upon seeing the flickering red and blue lights, she slammed the brakes. The bus stop was abandoned, a lonely cement slab with a metal shelter, a haunting place, certainly not where a daughter from a wealthy family should end up.
Emily lay curled up, exposed in a soaked silk nightgown, her face bloodied and swollen, one eye bruised. Her leg was unnaturally twisted.
“Emily!” Margaret shouted, rushing toward the mud.
Her daughter opened her eye, glancing at her with sheer terror. “It’s me, Mom. It’s Mom,” Margaret sobbed, unable to contain her panic.
“The silver…” Emily whispered. “I didn’t polish the tea set properly. Mrs. Gable held me down… Brad used a golf club. They said trash goes to the street…”
Margaret felt a wave of anger wash over her as her daughter recounted the attack, abandoned in the rain for a simple mistake.
“Paramedics!” she yelled, as Emily began to lose consciousness.
The ambulance departed, leaving Margaret alone in the rain, her hands stained with her daughter’s blood and mud. Something inside her had broken, replaced by an icy, fierce resolve.
The Death Sentence
The waiting room of St. Jude’s hospital was filled with glaring fluorescent lights and the sharp scent of antiseptic. Margaret paced, ignoring the need to wash her hands – she wanted to remember the blood, the mud, the suffering.
Three hours later, Dr. Evans emerged from the trauma room. Margaret understood the look in his eyes immediately.
“Margaret… she’s in a coma. The brain damage is severe, internal bleeding, broken ribs, shattered tibia… Her Glasgow Coma Scale is three, the lowest score possible. You need to prepare for the worst.”
Margaret stepped into the ICU room. Emily was almost unrecognizable, tiny and covered in bandages, her one unbandaged hand felt cold.
“I can’t heal it with a kiss, sweetie…” she whispered, reminiscing their childhood memories.
Her thoughts turned back to the Gables: the cozy home, the plush chairs, Brad and his mother sipping tea from tarnished silverware, while her daughter fought for her life.
Margaret snapped a plastic chair with her grip. “I won’t let them live if you die,” she whispered.
She exited the ICU, climbed into a truck, not heading to the police or back home. Instead, she grabbed gasoline, matches, and a crowbar. She decided that Emily’s death sentence would turn into a sentence for those responsible.
The Path of Vengeance
It took twenty minutes to reach the Gable estate. Margaret felt like both judge and executioner. Memories of disdain at the wedding and jests about Emily’s “heritage” filled her thoughts.
Stopping silently just outside the house, she breathed in the scent of damp earth and pine. The gasoline felt heavy in her hand, a promise of destruction.
She ascended the hill, where the Gable house glimmered with gentle light. Brad lounged on the couch, whisky in hand, glued to the television. Margaret felt a laugh catch in her throat – he was watching sports after beating his wife.
She struck a match. “Burn it…” she whispered, beginning to douse the furniture and facade of the house.
Suddenly, the phone buzzed. DOCTOR EVANS. Margaret hesitated – was Emily alive?
“No!” the doctor shouted. “She’s conscious. She’s asking for you. She said ‘Mom’!”
Margaret gasped, tossing the gasoline aside. The house was left untouched. Her daughter lived.
The Sweetest Revenge
In the ICU, Emily couldn’t speak, but her eyes begged Margaret to stay close. Detective Miller arrived. Emily wrote down:
BRAD. MOTHER. GOLF CLUB. THEY LAUGHED.
Margaret didn’t need fire – the law took care of the rest. The Gables were arrested, their wealth frozen. The trial was devastating – images of Emily at the bus stop demanded justice.
Brad received 25 years; his mother got 15. Their world crumbled.
Margaret looked at them in court. One gesture: “The bus stop.”
Rebirth
A year later: autumn in Margaret’s small home. Emily stepped out of a car, using a cane and with a long scar across her face, yet smiling.
<p“I got an acceptance letter,” she said. “To nursing school. I want to help people who cannot speak for themselves.”
Margaret hugged her daughter tight. “I’m so proud of you.”
“And the Gable estate was sold. The auction money has gone into my account.”
“You will manage,” Margaret smiled. “Maybe call it ‘Emily’s Home’ – the shelter you dreamed of?”
They sat on the porch, watching the sunset. Margaret recalled the weight of the gas canister, the strike of the match. She was on the brink of extinguishing monsters.
But the law triumphed, and Emily lived. Now, she could hold her future in her hands.
“Mom, do you ever think about them?” Emily asked.
<p“Who?” Margaret replied, gazing at the colorful leaves. They both started laughing.
