In front of fifty of my neighbors, Brenda pointed at me and said I couldn’t even keep my zucchini from rotting on the vine.
This was the woman who paraded her friends through our community garden, taking credit for my hard work and everyone else’s.
She never once knelt in the dirt, but she sure knew how to harvest my tomatoes for her fancy private parties without asking.
For months, I just took it. I let her call herself the garden’s “manager” while the rest of us did the actual work.
But that public insult, in that stuffy room, was the final straw.
She had no idea that I was about to use her own ignorance as a weapon, turning the very garden she stole credit for into a perfectly designed trap.
The Queen of Compost: Black Gold
The best part of the day is when my hands are deep in the soil. It’s a feeling that grounds me, a direct line to something real and uncomplicated. As a freelance graphic designer, I spend most of my hours staring at a screen, manipulating pixels, trying to make a client’s vision for a new kombucha label “pop.” Here, at my four-by-eight-foot plot in the Harmony Community Garden, there are no revisions. There is only sun, water, and work.
My husband, Mark, calls it my therapy. My daughter, Maya, calls it my dirt patch. I call it Plot 12B. This year, I’d spent all of April turning the soil, hauling buckets of compost from the community bins. It’s a rich, dark mixture we gardeners call “black gold,” smelling of damp earth and decay and the promise of life. I was amending the plot for my heirloom tomatoes, a fussy variety called Cherokee Purple that required perfect conditions.
“Looking fabulous over here!” a voice boomed from the gravel path.
I didn’t need to look up. It was Brenda. She stood with two other women I vaguely recognized from the neighborhood, both holding iced coffees and looking deeply uncomfortable near so much nature. Brenda wore pristine white capri pants and a sun hat the size of a satellite dish. She gestured grandly at the entire garden, a tour guide in her own imaginary museum.
“It just takes a firm hand and a clear vision to curate a space like this,” she said, her voice carrying across the plots. “You can’t just let people do whatever they want. It requires management.”
She was pointing at Mr. Henderson’s prize-winning roses, then at Maria’s perfectly trellised snap peas. Her gaze swept right over me, kneeling in the dirt like a peasant, before she led her friends toward the herb garden. She didn’t have a plot. She’d never had a plot. Brenda’s contribution was “leadership.”
I pushed my trowel into the soil, the metal scraping against a hidden rock. The sound was deeply unsatisfying.
Uninvited Guests
A week later, I arrived at the garden to find half my Sun Gold tomatoes gone. Not just a few for a snack; entire clusters had been snipped from the vine. My stomach tightened. These weren’t just tomatoes; they were dozens of hours of watering, weeding, and worrying. A quick look around confirmed I wasn’t the only victim. David’s cucumber vines were lighter, and a good portion of Maria’s snap peas were missing.
The mystery was solved that evening when I was scrolling through Facebook. There, on Brenda’s feed, was a photo album titled: “Sharing the Bounty of the Harmony Garden Project!”
The pictures showed thirty people mingling in the garden’s common area. There were fairy lights strung from the tool shed to the old oak tree. A long table was laden with food, and right in the center was a massive salad bowl filled with our vegetables. I could see my bright orange Sun Golds nestled next to David’s cukes. In another shot, Brenda was holding up a crudités platter, beaming, as if she had personally coaxed every single vegetable from the earth herself.
The caption read: “So rewarding to see my community vision come to life and to share the fruits of our collective labor with friends. #Community #GardenToTable #Blessed”
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. A hot, angry comment was forming in my mind. But what would I say? That she’d stolen my tomatoes for her private party? In the comments section, people were gushing. “Brenda, you’re an inspiration!” “What a wonderful use of the space!” “You do so much for this neighborhood!”
I closed my laptop. Mark came into the living room and saw my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Brenda threw a party,” I said, the words feeling small and petty. “In the garden. She used everyone’s vegetables.”
He winced in sympathy. “Did she ask?”
“Of course not. She just… did it. And now she’s taking all the credit online.”
“She’s a steamroller, honey,” he said, sitting beside me. “You can’t stand in front of a steamroller.”
The Stewardship Speech
The annual meeting for the Harmony Neighborhood Association was held in the musty basement of the local library. The air smelled of old paper and stale coffee. About fifty of us sat in squeaky metal folding chairs under the sickly buzz of fluorescent lights. The agenda was a familiar litany of complaints about parking, garbage collection, and the proposed speed bump on Elm Street.
Then, the floor was opened for new business. Brenda stood up. She strode to the front of the room and took the microphone with the practiced ease of a seasoned politician.
“I’d like to talk about one of our community’s crown jewels,” she began, her voice resonating with warmth and authority. “The Harmony Community Garden.”
A few people applauded politely. I felt a knot form in my stomach.
“When this project began, it was a bit… chaotic,” she continued, smiling magnanimously. “Well-intentioned, of course, but lacking a cohesive vision. What it needed was stewardship. It needed someone to guide its potential, to manage the resources and the aesthetics, to ensure it became a showpiece for our entire neighborhood.”
She paused for effect, sweeping her gaze across the room. She was talking about herself. She was positioning herself as the sole architect of a project that dozens of us poured our sweat into every single day. I could feel old Mr. Henderson shifting uncomfortably in his seat two rows ahead of me.
“And I’m proud to say, under that stewardship, it has flourished,” she declared. “It’s become a place of beauty and bounty, a testament to what we can achieve when we have strong leadership.”
The steamroller was in motion, and we were all just part of the pavement. I sank a little lower in my chair, my hands clenched in my lap.
The Zucchini Insult
Brenda wasn’t finished. She held up a hand as if to graciously accept the smattering of applause. “But leadership isn’t just about the big picture. It’s also about managing the details. Ensuring quality control.”
Her eyes scanned the room and then, with terrifying precision, they locked onto mine. My breath caught in my throat.
“Because let’s be honest,” she said, her voice losing a bit of its warmth and taking on a sharper, instructive edge. “Some of us contribute vision. Some of us provide leadership and direction, the skills that are truly necessary for a project of this scale to succeed.”
She took a small step forward, pointing the microphone vaguely in my direction. The gesture was unmistakable.
“And others,” she continued, her voice dripping with condescension, “just play in the dirt and can’t even keep their zucchini from rotting on the vine. We need less of that if we’re going to maintain a standard of excellence.”
A wave of heat washed over my face. She was talking about the one zucchini plant I’d lost to blossom-end rot two summers ago. A single, pathetic zucchini. She’d remembered it.
The room went completely, utterly silent. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights suddenly seemed deafening. Everyone was looking at me. I could feel their pity, their embarrassment. It was a physical weight pressing down, suffocating me. I just sat there, my face burning, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Brenda smiled, handed the microphone back, and returned to her seat, a queen returning to her throne. The meeting moved on to the speed bump on Elm Street, but I didn’t hear a word. I was still sitting in that terrible, echoing silence, a cold, quiet rage beginning to crystallize in my chest.
A Different Kind of Weed Killer: The 3 AM Architect
Sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that stuffy library basement, the silence ringing in my ears. “Rotting on the vine.” The phrase echoed, a mocking little mantra. The humiliation had burned off, leaving something cold and hard in its place.
I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Mark, and went to my home office. The glow of my monitor filled the dark room. I wasn’t going to complain to the HOA board. I wasn’t going to get into a shouting match with Brenda on the gravel path. That was her arena. She thrived on direct confrontation and public debate. She would twist my words and make me look petty and hysterical.
My arena was different. It was visual. It was about details. As a designer, my job was to arrange elements to create a specific effect, to guide a user’s eye, to tell a story without a single word. My rage wasn’t hot and explosive; it was a quiet, meticulous blueprint taking shape on the screen.
I opened a new file and created a simple grid layout of the community garden. I dragged and dropped little squares representing each plot. Plot 12B, mine. Plot 7A, Mr. Henderson’s roses. Plot 9C, Maria’s peas. I knew the garden intimately—what grew where, who struggled with what, who watered diligently, and who didn’t.
And I knew Brenda’s biggest weakness. It wasn’t malice or cruelty. It was ignorance. She saw the garden as a painting, a finished product to be admired. She had no idea how the paint was mixed.
The plan began to form, not as a messy scrawl, but as a clean, elegant design. I would use the garden itself. The very thing she used to build her reputation would be the thing that dismantled it. I wouldn’t need to say a word. The dirt would do the talking for me.
A Calculated Transplant
The next morning, the alarm went off at 5:00 AM. The sky outside was a dark, bruised purple. Mark mumbled something in his sleep as I dressed in my oldest clothes. Secrecy was paramount.
I arrived at the garden as the first hints of dawn were breaking. The air was cool and heavy with dew. The only sounds were the distant hum of the highway and the chirping of early birds. It felt clandestine, like a spy mission.
I went straight to my plot. My Genovese basil was thriving, the leaves glossy and fragrant. My three Carmen pepper plants were heavy with fruit. They were the pride of my little patch. With a deep breath and a twinge of regret, I began to dig them up. My trowel made soft, slicing sounds in the damp earth as I carefully worked around the root balls.
I carried them, one by one, across the garden to Plot 3D. It had belonged to Mrs. Gable before she moved into assisted living. It was now a sad, weed-choked square that Brenda never bothered to look at. I cleared a space among the dandelions and crabgrass and carefully replanted my prize specimens. I gave them a good, long drink of water from my can.
Returning to my own plot, I surveyed the damage. It looked… fine. The tomatoes were still there, the marigolds were bright. But the stars of the show were gone. It was intentionally, strategically average. It was background music, not a solo.
A car door slammed on the street. I ducked behind the tool shed, my heart pounding. It was just Mr. Henderson arriving with his watering can. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The risk was real. If anyone saw me, the plan would be ruined before it even started.
Signs and Misdirection
My campaign of horticultural disinformation continued over the next week. It was a war fought with tiny, almost imperceptible changes.
The main target was the communal herb garden, a showpiece Brenda was particularly proud of “curating.” I waited for a quiet afternoon when I knew no one would be around. With a pair of pliers, I gently pulled the small, engraved metal stake that read “Lemon Balm” from the soil. I walked ten feet over to the patch of catnip, which looks remarkably similar if you’re not paying attention, and pushed the Lemon Balm stake in next to it. Then I placed the “Catnip” stake where the Lemon Balm was.
It was a simple switch, but a potent one. I knew for a fact that Brenda had two pampered Himalayan cats, Snowball and Czarina, who she complained were finicky and hated catnip. She often brought visitors to the herb garden to pick a sprig of what she thought was Lemon Balm to rub between their fingers, enjoying its bright, citrusy scent.
A few days later, my theory was tested. I was on my knees, diligently weeding my now-mediocre plot, when Brenda strolled by with one of her friends. She was holding a small, leather-bound notebook.
“Just making some notes for my presentation,” she said to me with a conspiratorial wink, as if we were partners in this grand enterprise.
She led her friend to the herb garden. “And this is our lovely Lemon Balm,” she announced, gesturing to the catnip. “Go on, give it a sniff. It’s wonderfully calming.”
The friend dutifully plucked a leaf, crushed it, and inhaled. She frowned slightly. “It smells… minty. A bit… different than I remember.”
“It’s the terroir,” Brenda said with utter confidence. “The soil here just gives it a unique profile.”
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. She hadn’t noticed a thing. She was so blinded by her own narrative that she couldn’t see the truth, even when it was right under her nose.
The Gauntlet Thrown
The plan was quietly humming along, a series of small, hidden traps waiting to be sprung. I was content to let it simmer, to wait for the perfect moment. But Brenda, in her infinite ambition, decided to accelerate the timeline.
She cornered me by the tool shed one blistering hot afternoon. I was rinsing my trowel under the spigot, and she appeared so suddenly I nearly dropped it. She was vibrating with an energy that was part excitement, part pure, uncut arrogance.
“Sarah! Just the person I wanted to see,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I have the most wonderful news.”
I turned off the water, my hand still gripping the trowel. “What’s that, Brenda?”
“I’ve done it,” she announced, clasping her hands together in front of her chest. “I officially entered our beautiful garden into the Annual City-Wide Garden Contest.”
My stomach didn’t sink. It did a strange, exhilarating flip. The contest was a big deal. Judges from the city’s horticultural society. A write-up in the local paper. It was a much larger stage than I had ever imagined.
“And guess what?” she beamed, leaning in as if sharing a delicious secret. “Channel 7 is coming to cover it. The morning news! They want to do a whole segment on a thriving community space.”
She paused, letting the weight of this information settle. I just stared at her, my face a carefully constructed mask of neutral interest.
“They want to interview the person behind it all,” she finished, her smile impossibly wide. “Me, of course. To talk about my vision and how I brought it all together.”
She patted my arm, a gesture of benevolent leadership towards a loyal subordinate. “I knew you’d be thrilled. It’s a win for all of us, really.”
She turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the sun, water dripping from my trowel onto the parched ground. The stage was set. The audience was coming. And the star of the show had no idea she was walking into an ambush.
Tending the Trap: The Foxglove Deception
Channel 7. The stakes were no longer just neighborhood pride; they were televised. My quiet little plan needed a centerpiece, a showstopper. It needed something undeniable.
That Saturday, I told Mark I was going to a specialty nursery forty minutes away, looking for a specific type of organic fertilizer. It wasn’t a complete lie; I did buy fertilizer. But my primary target was something else entirely. The greenhouse was a humid, sprawling labyrinth, thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. I felt like an assassin searching for the perfect weapon.
And then I saw it. A beautiful cluster of Digitalis purpurea. Foxglove. It stood tall, with elegant, bell-shaped flowers in a lovely shade of lavender. To an untrained eye, its early leaves and flowers bear a striking resemblance to Borage, a common garden herb with fuzzy leaves and pretty, star-shaped blue flowers that people love to use as an edible garnish in salads and summer drinks.
Except Foxglove is toxic. It’s the plant from which the heart medication Digitalis is derived. In the wrong dose, it can be lethal. A cold knot of something—fear, or maybe excitement—tightened in my gut. This was a serious escalation. I was moving beyond simple embarrassment into something far more dangerous.
I bought the healthiest-looking one. Back at the garden, during a quiet weekday lunch hour, I planted it. Not tucked away in a corner, but right in the front of the main communal bed, a place of honor. Then, I took out a new wooden plant marker I’d made in my office, with the word “Borage” elegantly burned into the surface. I pushed it firmly into the soil next to the stem of the deadly plant. It looked beautiful. It looked intentional. It looked like a trap.
Rumors and Nematodes
My next move was more subtle, a piece of psychological warfare. I bought a package of beneficial nematodes online. They’re microscopic organisms you mix with water and pour into the soil to kill common pests like cutworms from the inside out. They are a silent, invisible, and highly effective organic solution. I applied them to my plot and several of the surrounding ones late one evening.
The next day, I made sure to run into Carol, a sweet but notorious gossip who was on friendly terms with Brenda. I was sighing dramatically as I examined the base of my tomato plants.
“Everything okay, Sarah?” she asked, her voice full of concern.
“Oh, I don’t know, Carol,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose like I had a migraine. “It’s these cutworms. They’re just devastating my plot. I’ve tried everything, but they’re relentless.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, that’s terrible! Have you told Brenda? She’s so good with these big-picture problems.”
“No, I don’t want to bother her,” I said, waving a dismissive hand. “She’s so busy with the contest. I’ll figure it out.”
I knew with absolute certainty that within the hour, Carol would have told at least three people, and the message would have made its way to Brenda. The rumor was planted: Sarah has a terrible cutworm problem. Brenda, in her role as “manager,” would file this information away to use in her television interview as an example of a challenge the garden was “overcoming” under her leadership, completely unaware that the problem didn’t actually exist. It was a lie that would make her look both knowledgeable and ineffectual at the same time.
A Companion Catastrophe
The final piece of the puzzle was a classic gardening blunder, a rookie mistake that any seasoned expert would spot from a mile away. It was a test of fundamental knowledge.
Companion planting is a core concept in organic gardening. Some plants help each other, while others are actively detrimental. The most famous bad pairing is fennel and beans. Fennel releases a substance from its roots that inhibits the growth of most plants, but it’s particularly toxic to bush beans.
Maria’s prize-winning Contender bush beans were just hitting their stride, forming a lush green wall along her trellis. On the other side of the path, in an unassigned patch of the communal bed, I planted a large, feathery fennel plant I’d bought at the farmer’s market. Its delicate, anise-scented fronds looked quite a bit like dill to the uninitiated.
I placed my final hand-crafted sign next to it: “Dill.”
Over the next few days, the effect was subtle but undeniable. The leaves on the side of Maria’s bean patch closest to the fennel began to yellow. The growth slowed, the plants looking stressed and sickly. It was a perfect, localized disaster.
When the judges came, they wouldn’t just see a struggling plant. They would see the cause right next to it, proudly mislabeled. It was a horticultural smoking gun. Brenda, in her tour of the garden, would walk right past it, pointing out the “lovely dill” and completely missing the silent assassination happening just a few feet away. The garden was now perfectly, beautifully, and viciously primed.
The Day of Reckoning
The morning of the contest was cinematic. The sun was bright but not yet hot, casting a golden glow over everything. The garden had never looked more vibrant. A small crowd of neighbors had gathered, their excited whispers creating a low buzz in the air.
Parked on the curb was the stark white Channel 7 news van, its satellite dish aimed at the sky. It felt like an alien spacecraft had landed on our quiet suburban street, a symbol of how high the stakes had become.
Brenda was magnificent. She wore a crisp, cream-colored linen suit and sensible-but-expensive-looking wedges. She moved through the crowd with the serene confidence of a celebrity on a red carpet, accepting compliments and patting shoulders. She was in her element.
The judges arrived next: a stern-looking older woman named Mrs. Dubois, a legend in the local horticultural society, and a man named Dr. Allen, a professor of botany from the local university. They carried clipboards and wore serious expressions.
I stood near the back, by the compost bins, trying to look like an innocent bystander. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. Had I missed anything? Was the Foxglove too obvious? Was the fennel not close enough to the beans?
The reporter, a chipper young woman named Tiffany with blindingly white teeth, huddled with her cameraman. “Okay, we’re live in five,” she said. She approached Brenda and clipped a small microphone to her lapel.
“Ready for your close-up?” Tiffany chirped.
Brenda gave a laugh that was both modest and deeply self-satisfied. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Action!” the cameraman called out.
The little red light on the camera blinked on. Tiffany turned to Brenda, her smile filling the frame. She gestured toward the communal bed, toward the beautiful, elegant, poisonous plant I had placed there myself.
“So, Brenda,” she began, her voice smooth and professional, “this garden is just stunning. Can you start by telling us about this gorgeous specimen right here?”
The camera zoomed in on the Foxglove. My breath caught in my throat. This was it.
The Bitter Harvest: An Edible Mistake
Brenda’s face lit up. She practically patted the plant. “Oh, this is one of my favorites,” she said, her voice a smooth river of confidence flowing directly into the microphone. “This is Borage. A wonderful little herb.”
The cameraman got a tight shot of the lavender, bell-shaped flowers. I could see Mrs. Dubois, the judge, stiffen slightly out of the corner of my eye.
“It’s a fantastic pollinator attractant,” Brenda continued, now fully in her role as the expert. “And the best part is, the flowers are edible. They have a lovely, faint cucumber taste. They look just beautiful in a summer salad or as a garnish in a gin and tonic.”
Mrs. Dubois’s polite smile vanished. She took a step forward, her expression turning to one of alarm. “Ma’am,” she said, her voice cutting through the pleasant morning air. “I’m sorry, but that is not Borage.”
Brenda blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“That plant,” Mrs. Dubois said, pointing a stern finger, “is Digitalis purpurea. It’s Foxglove. It is highly toxic. Ingesting any part of it, especially the flowers, can cause severe cardiac distress.”
The reporter’s eyes went wide. She reflexively pulled the microphone back a few inches from Brenda’s face. The silence that followed was a vacuum, sucking all the air out of the garden. Brenda’s face, broadcast live to anyone in the greater metropolitan area watching morning television, was a perfect mask of confusion.
“That… that can’t be right,” she stammered. “The sign…”
“The sign is incorrect,” Mrs. Dubois stated flatly. “Any experienced gardener would recognize Foxglove immediately. Recommending its consumption on television is… monumentally irresponsible.”
The Unraveling
The atmosphere had curdled. The friendly news segment had become a slow-motion car crash. Dr. Allen, the other judge, seized the opportunity to shift topics, but it was like jumping from a fire into a frying pan.
He flipped a page on his clipboard. “I was also told by one of your gardeners that you’ve been having a significant cutworm infestation in this area,” he said, gesturing towards my plot. “What organic methods have you been employing to manage that?”
Brenda looked like a deer in the headlights. The rumor I had planted had come back to her, and she had clearly planned to use it as a talking point. “Yes, it’s been a challenge,” she said, trying to regain her footing. “But my holistic management methods are… bringing it under control.”
Dr. Allen knelt by my plot, poking a finger into the soil. “I see no evidence of cutworm damage here. In fact, this soil is teeming with life. Excellent tilth. Your methods seem to be working perfectly.” He said it to her, but he was looking at my perfectly average, pest-free plants. He was complimenting my work while exposing her ignorance.
He then stood up and pointed across the path. “And is it part of your holistic method to plant fennel, which you’ve mislabeled as Dill, directly next to this patch of bush beans?” he asked, his tone purely academic but utterly devastating. “Because fennel is a well-known allelopathic plant. It’s inhibiting the growth of these beans. It’s killing them.”
That was the final blow. The meticulously constructed facade of Brenda the Garden Guru shattered into a million pieces. Her face went from pale to a blotchy, furious red. The camera held steady on her, capturing every flicker of her humiliation. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
The neighbors were whispering, their faces a mix of horror, shock, and a kind of grim satisfaction. Brenda looked wildly around, her eyes landing on me for a split second. In that moment, I saw not anger, but pure, wounded panic.
Then she turned and fled. She didn’t walk. She ran, pushing past the stunned cameraman, her expensive wedges sinking into the soft lawn as she escaped toward the safety of her house.
The Poisoned Well
For about twenty-four hours, the victory was sweet. People I barely knew came up to me, slapping my back. “That was amazing,” one of them said. “She finally got what was coming to her.” The story of Brenda’s on-air implosion was the talk of the neighborhood. My plan had worked with terrifying perfection. Justice had been served.
Then the feeling began to curdle.
The garden, my sanctuary, felt different. The air was thick with gossip and awkward silences. The community felt fractured. Some were openly gloating, while others looked disturbed. I overheard Carol telling someone that what happened was “just plain cruel.”
Two days after the contest, I was watering my tomatoes when I saw old Mr. Henderson walking slowly down the street. He was carrying a casserole dish covered in aluminum foil. He walked right up to Brenda’s front door, rang the bell, and when no one answered, he left the dish on her porch. An act of simple, quiet kindness.
It hit me like a punch to the gut. I had seen Brenda not as a person, but as a problem to be solved, an obstacle to be dismantled. I had wanted to humiliate her, and I had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. I had engineered the complete and total destruction of a person’s public standing. The sight of that casserole dish sitting on her doorstep made my savage triumph feel cheap and ugly.
Brenda didn’t emerge from her house for a week. The garden was no longer a place of peace. It felt like a crime scene, and I was the perpetrator. The joy I once felt with my hands in the dirt was gone, replaced by a hollow, ringing guilt.
The Final Word
Weeks passed. The news segment became old news. The garden slowly found its rhythm again, the plants indifferent to human drama. I worked in my plot, and the quiet, steady labor began to soothe the raw edges of my conscience. I told myself it was over. I had made my point. Maybe, in time, things could go back to the way they were.
One late afternoon, during the golden hour when the light slants low and makes everything beautiful, I was on my knees, pulling a stubborn bit of clover from the base of a tomato plant. My fingers brushed against my favorite trowel, the one with the worn wooden handle that fit my hand perfectly.
Something was wrong. There was a piece of paper, folded into a neat square, tucked under the handle. My heart started a low, anxious thud.
With trembling fingers, I pulled it out and unfolded it. It was a crisp sheet of expensive stationery, and the handwriting was Brenda’s perfect, looping script. The note was short.
“I know it was you.”
I read the words again, a chill crawling up my spine despite the warm air.
“You didn’t win. You just became me.”
I stared at the note as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the garden. The scent of the soil, once a comfort, now smelled like something rotten. The silence was back, but this time it wasn’t in a library basement. It was inside me. She was wrong. I hadn’t become her. I had become something worse
About the Author
