With a voice dripping in false pity, Brenda stood before the group and single-handedly torpedoed a life-changing $125,000 grant for our women’s shelter.
Her excuse was protecting our “integrity,” choosing her husband’s much smaller, “purer” donation instead.
She painted my hard-won success as a reckless corporate sellout, a threat to the very soul of our organization. In sixty seconds, she wasn’t the villain who’d just cost abused women a fortune; she was the valiant hero protecting her flock. I was the fool who almost led them astray, and the rest of the women nodded right along with her.
But Brenda made one critical mistake: she taught me that the deadliest weapon isn’t a knife, it’s a compliment, and I was about to build her a crown of praise so heavy it would drag her right off her throne.
The Gospel According to Brenda: A Quorum of One
The fluorescent lights of the community center basement hummed a flat, indifferent note. It was the official soundtrack to our monthly Haven House Auxiliary meeting. Twenty-three women sat on unforgiving metal chairs, a floral sea of cardigans and sensible shoes, all focused on Brenda.
Brenda, our chairwoman, stood at the front, her posture a masterclass in relaxed authority. She had a way of holding a room captive not with a gavel, but with a gentle, disappointed smile that made you feel like you’d personally let down a saint.
“Now, the annual Fall Gala,” she began, her voice as smooth and cloying as warm honey. “As you all know, this is our cornerstone event. It funds nearly sixty percent of Haven House’s operational budget for the entire year. So, no pressure, ladies.” A smattering of polite, nervous laughter.
I shifted in my seat, the metal legs of the chair scraping against the linoleum. I’m a project manager for a living. I wrangle timelines, budgets, and unruly software developers. To me, the Gala was a massive, teetering Jenga tower of logistics, and Brenda treated it like a PTA bake sale.
“I’ve drafted a preliminary budget,” she continued, gesturing to a whiteboard where she’d scrawled a few numbers in pink marker. The total at the bottom was a familiar one. It was the same goal we’d had for three years running. A good goal, a safe goal, but one that didn’t account for rising food costs, inflation, or the shelter’s growing needs.
A hand went up in the second row. It was Carol, a retired accountant who joined last year. “Brenda, I was just looking at the shelter’s latest quarterly report. Their utility costs are up almost fifteen percent. Should we maybe aim a little higher on the fundraising goal to cover that?”
Brenda’s smile didn’t falter, but it tightened at the corners. “That is such a thoughtful point, Carol. It truly is.” The praise hung in the air for a moment before the ‘but’ arrived. “But we have to be realistic. We don’t want to scare away our loyal donors by seeming too… aggressive. It’s about sustainability. We know we can hit this number. It’s better to have a solid win than to reach for the stars and fall short, don’t you think?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Her gaze swept the room, and one by one, heads nodded in agreement. Carol, effectively patted on the head and dismissed, slowly lowered her hand, her face flushing.
I felt that familiar churn in my gut. It was the Brenda effect. She could make the most logical, necessary suggestion sound like a reckless, greedy gamble. She wasn’t a dictator; she was a loving matriarch protecting her flock from their own foolish ambitions. And it was maddening.
The Hallway Epiphany
The next day at work, I was walking my boss to the elevator, running down the final logistics for the Sterling product launch. My company, a mid-size tech firm called Veridian, was all about efficiency and measurable outcomes. We lived and died by data, not by feelings.
“And the catering is confirmed for the launch party, the press kits are being couriered this afternoon, and…” I trailed off as we passed the corporate social responsibility office. Taped to the glass door was a new flyer, a slick, professionally designed poster with a headline that jumped out in bold, sans-serif font: “Aethelgard Corp Philanthropy Initiative: Doubling Our Impact.”
“Sarah? You with me?” my boss asked.
“Sorry, Dave. Just one second.” I walked over to the door and read the fine print. Aethelgard, the multinational conglomerate that had acquired our parent company last year, was launching a new community partnership program. They were looking for local non-profits to sponsor, with a focus on women’s and children’s services. The minimum grant was a hundred thousand dollars.
A hundred. Thousand. Dollars.
Our entire Fall Gala, after expenses, usually cleared about sixty-five thousand. On a good year. This single sponsorship would more than double our annual intake. It would be… transformative. It would mean new beds at the shelter, a dedicated trauma counselor for the kids, maybe even repairs on the leaky roof that had been patched and re-patched for a decade.
“Everything okay?” Dave asked, now standing beside me.
“Yeah,” I breathed, my mind racing. “Everything is fantastic.”
The idea bloomed in my head, fully formed and radiant. This wasn’t just a donation; it was a partnership. I managed corporate projects for a living. I could write a proposal in my sleep. I knew how to speak their language—synergy, impact metrics, brand alignment. I could do this. I could land Aethelgard Corp.
I spent the rest of the day in a fugue state, my fingers flying across the keyboard, responding to emails about server migration while my brain drafted pitch decks and talking points. For the first time in a long time, the thought of the Haven House Auxiliary didn’t fill me with a sense of weary obligation. It filled me with a jolt of pure, unadulterated hope.
A Conspiracy of Two
That night, I unloaded the whole thing on my husband, Mark, as I chopped vegetables for dinner with far more vigor than necessary. The knife thudded against the cutting board, punctuating my sentences.
“She just… shuts everything down,” I said, mincing a clove of garlic to oblivion. “Carol had a perfectly valid point about the budget, and Brenda treated her like a child asking for a second dessert. It’s this suffocating kindness. You can’t argue with it, because then *you’re* the one who’s not being nice.”
Mark leaned against the counter, sipping a beer. He was a high school history teacher, and he had a PhD in parsing difficult human dynamics. “The benevolent dictator,” he said, nodding. “They’re the trickiest. An overt tyrant is easy to rebel against. The one who convinces everyone she’s acting in their best interest is almost impossible to fight.”
“Exactly!” I pointed at him with the knife, then remembered I was holding a knife and put it down. “So this Aethelgard thing… it’s huge, Mark. It’s a game-changer. But I can’t just bring it up at the next meeting.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “She’ll ‘table it for further discussion’?”
“Or she’ll say she’s concerned about the ‘corporate optics’ or some other vague nonsense that sounds wise but is really just a way of saying no because it wasn’t her idea.”
I scraped the garlic into a hot pan, and the sizzle filled the kitchen. “I have to get it all locked down first. I need to have a signed letter of intent in my hand before I even mention it. A done deal. Something she can’t dismantle with a patronizing smile.”
Mark was quiet for a moment. “So you’re going rogue.”
“I’m going effective,” I corrected. “For the good of the group.” I caught the echo of Brenda’s favorite phrase in my own words and grimaced. “Okay, maybe a little rogue. But the stakes are too high. Think of what that money could do for the shelter.”
He came over and wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. “I think you should do it,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Just be ready. When you finally bring it to the queen, she’s not going to be happy you stormed her castle, even if you are bearing treasure.”
Planting a Barren Seed
A week later, I saw my opening. It was a Tuesday evening, and I was at the community center dropping off some silent auction donation forms I’d collected. Brenda was there, of course, meticulously re-folding donated tablecloths. Her dedication was both admirable and suffocating. She was always there, a permanent fixture, her presence a silent testament to her superior commitment.
“Sarah, dear. So good of you to drop these by,” she said, not looking up from her task. She smoothed a crease in a polyester blend with the focus of a surgeon.
“No problem, Brenda.” I hesitated, my heart thumping. I wasn’t going to tell her about Aethelgard, but my plan required me to at least test the waters. “You know, I was thinking about what Carol said at the last meeting, about the budget. It got me wondering if we should be looking at some larger corporate sponsors this year. Really swing for the fences.”
Brenda finally stopped folding. She looked up at me, her head tilted. It was her ‘concerned’ look, the one she deployed when someone was being naive. “That’s an interesting thought,” she said slowly, as if tasting a foreign spice. “My only concern with big corporations is that they often come with… strings.”
She picked up another tablecloth. “They want their name plastered everywhere, they have their own agendas. It can dilute our message. We’re a grassroots organization, Sarah. We’re about community. I worry that getting into bed with some faceless multinational would cause us to lose a little bit of our soul. Don’t you?”
There it was. The velvet glove. She hadn’t said no. She had simply framed my hypothetical idea as a potential threat to the very identity of our group. She was protecting our “soul” from the taint of corporate money.
“It’s just a thought,” I said, keeping my voice light. “We’re all just trying to do what’s best for the shelter.”
“Of course, you are, dear,” she said, her smile returning, warm and absolute. “And I appreciate you so much for it.”
I walked out into the cool night air, my car keys digging into my palm. Mark was right. This was a castle, and its walls were built of smiles and platitudes. And I was going to have to find a way to tunnel underneath them.
A Quiet Treason: The Shadow Campaign
The next few weeks were a blur of clandestine activity. By day, I was Sarah, the Veridian project manager, juggling deadlines and placating clients. By night, after my son, Leo, was in bed and Mark was grading papers, I became Sarah, the secret agent of philanthropy.
My dining room table became my command center. I spent hours researching Aethelgard’s corporate culture, tailoring my pitch to their stated values of “community empowerment” and “impactful partnerships.” I built a deck that was heavy on data and testimonials from Haven House, but light on the kind of sentimental fluff Brenda favored. This wasn’t about pulling heartstrings; it was a business proposition. Aethelgard gives us money, and in return, they get quantifiable goodwill, positive PR, and a tangible connection to the community their new acquisition (my company) operated in.
I used my Veridian email and my professional title to get my foot in the door, leveraging a corporate directory to find the name of the head of social responsibility, a woman named Ms. Albright. I sent a crisp, professional inquiry. I got a response within a day. She was intrigued. She wanted to schedule a call.
Meanwhile, life in the Auxiliary chugged along under Brenda’s careful stewardship. I attended the weekly planning meetings, nodding along as discussions devolved into twenty-minute debates over the color of the cocktail napkins. Brenda had formed a “Napkin Subcommittee,” of which she was, naturally, the chair.
“I just feel that burgundy says ‘autumn elegance,’ while the crimson feels a bit… aggressive,” she mused, holding two swatches up to the harsh fluorescent light. “Thoughts, ladies?”
I’d sit there, a formal proposal for a six-figure sponsorship saved on my laptop in my bag, and offer my opinion on napkins. The duality of it was starting to give me vertigo. I was living a double life, and the contrast between Brenda’s world of micro-managed minutiae and the high-stakes corporate pitch I was preparing was staggering.
The Tech-Savvy Heretic
At the next meeting, the dam of polite submission showed a tiny crack. It came from Maria, a young graphic designer who had joined a few months ago. She was sharp, efficient, and hadn’t yet been fully steamrolled by the Brenda method.
“I was just thinking about ticket sales,” Maria said, speaking up during the open forum portion of the meeting. “Right now, we’re just selling them in person and having people mail in checks. I could set up a simple event page online. People could buy tickets with a credit card, we could track RSVPs in real time. It would streamline things and probably boost sales with a younger crowd.”
It was a brilliant, obvious idea. It would save hours of administrative work, work mostly done by Brenda herself, who guarded the master spreadsheet of attendees like a dragon guarding its hoard.
Brenda gave Maria her patented warm, patient smile. “Oh, Maria. That is so clever. Look at you, with all your wonderful new ideas.” She let the praise linger. “My only slight hesitation is for our older members. People like Martha,” she said, gesturing to an elderly woman in the front row, “who are so generous with their support but aren’t necessarily comfortable with all this… online business. We want the Gala to feel accessible to everyone, not just the tech-savvy.”
She turned to the room. “I just wouldn’t want anyone to feel excluded, would we?”
A chorus of “no’s” rippled through the group. Maria’s face fell. Her fantastic, time-saving, money-making idea had just been publicly reframed as an act of generational exclusion. She had been made to feel like a thoughtless millennial trying to push poor old Martha out of the picture.
I watched the exchange, a cold knot tightening in my stomach. That was Brenda’s genius. She never attacked the idea; she attacked the imagined emotional fallout. She wasn’t preserving an inefficient system; she was protecting the feelings of the vulnerable. It was masterful. And it was deeply, fundamentally dishonest.
After the meeting, I caught Maria in the parking lot. “Hey. That was a really good idea you had.”
She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Apparently not. I feel like I just suggested we install a vape lounge.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, lowering my voice. “It’s not you. It’s the system.”
She looked at me, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m starting to figure that out.”
The Call
My call with Ms. Albright from Aethelgard was scheduled for a Thursday afternoon. I booked a small conference room at my office, my hands clammy as I dialed the number.
“Eleanor Albright.” Her voice was exactly as I’d pictured it: sharp, no-nonsense, and busy.
I took a deep breath. “Ms. Albright, this is Sarah Miller from Veridian. Thank you for taking the time.”
“Of course. I’ve reviewed the preliminary materials you sent. Haven House. Impressive work they’re doing. The numbers on your proposal are ambitious.”
“I believe they’re realistic,” I said, my project manager persona taking over. “The shelter’s needs are growing, and their current fundraising model has hit a plateau. A partnership with Aethelgard wouldn’t just be a donation; it would be an investment in capacity-building. It would allow them to scale their services to meet rising demand.”
I walked her through the data, the projected outcomes, the specific, tangible things the money could achieve: twenty new beds, a full-time children’s advocate, seed money for a job training program. I spoke her language. ROI wasn’t just ‘Return on Investment,’ it was ‘Return on Impact.’
She was quiet for a long moment when I finished. I could hear the faint click of a keyboard on her end. “You’re with Veridian’s project management division, correct? You’re not on the board of this charity?”
“I’m a volunteer with the fundraising auxiliary,” I said carefully. “My professional life is about executing complex projects. I see this as the most important project I could possibly take on.”
“I see,” she said. There was a new note in her voice—respect. “Look, Sarah. I like this. It’s clean, it’s data-driven, and it’s exactly the kind of high-impact local partnership we’re looking for. I want to move this forward. I’m going to present it to my committee next week. Can you have a finalized, formal proposal on my desk by Monday?”
My heart leaped. “Absolutely,” I said, my voice betraying none of the triumphant joy that was flooding my system. “You’ll have it by end of day Friday.”
“Good,” she said. “I look forward to it.”
I hung up the phone and let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. I leaned back in my chair, a wide, goofy grin spreading across my face. The tunnel was working. I was almost under the castle walls.
Dropping the Breadcrumb
At the next Auxiliary meeting, I knew I had to say something. Keeping it completely secret for much longer felt wrong, and it was getting harder to sit through the endless debates about tablecloths and centerpieces.
Brenda was in the middle of a lengthy explanation of the volunteer schedule she’d created, a document so detailed it looked like the battle plan for the Normandy invasion. When she finally paused for a breath, I saw my chance.
“Brenda, on the fundraising front,” I started, trying to sound casual. “I just wanted to let the group know that I’ve been pursuing a lead on a potential corporate sponsorship. It’s still in the early stages, but it’s looking very promising.”
The room went quiet. All eyes turned to me. This was new. People didn’t just go off and pursue their own leads. All fundraising initiatives were supposed to go through Brenda.
Brenda’s face arranged itself into a mask of pleasant surprise. “Well, isn’t that enterprising of you, Sarah.” Her tone was light, but her eyes were like chips of ice. “Care to share any details?”
“I’d rather wait until I have something more concrete,” I said, which was the truth, just not the whole truth. “I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up. But it’s a company with a strong commitment to community outreach, and I think they’re a good fit for our mission.”
“I see,” she said, her voice dripping with false magnanimity. “Well, that’s just wonderful. We all appreciate you taking that initiative. Do keep me posted on how that develops. We’ll need to make sure everything is properly vetted, of course.”
The subtext was crystal clear: *You went out of bounds, and I will be the one to decide if your little project is worthy.*
I just smiled back. “Of course. You’ll be the first to know.”
The meeting moved on, but the dynamic in the room had shifted. I had drawn a line, however faint, in the sand. And I could feel Brenda’s gaze on me for the rest of the evening, cool and calculating. The benevolent queen was starting to realize there was a rogue operator in her court.
The Killing Kindness: The Letter
The email from Eleanor Albright arrived on a Monday morning. It was so understated, so corporate, that it took me a moment to process its significance. The subject line was simply: “Aethelgard / Haven House Partnership.”
My hands trembled as I opened it.
*Dear Sarah,*
*Following our committee review, I am delighted to inform you that we have approved a one-time grant of $125,000 to Haven House, to be used as outlined in your proposal. We see this as the beginning of a strong community partnership. The official letter of intent is attached. Please let us know who from your organization’s leadership will be signing and where we should direct the funds.*
*Best,*
*Eleanor Albright*
One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.
I stared at the number. It was more than I’d even dared to put in the final proposal. They hadn’t just met my request; they had exceeded it.
I read the email three times, then opened the PDF attachment. There it was, on official Aethelgard letterhead. A legally binding promise. It was real.
I felt a dizzying wave of euphoria. I wanted to stand on my desk and shout. This was life-changing money for the shelter. This was a year of security, of growth, of not having to choose between fixing the plumbing and buying new mattresses for the kids’ rooms. We did it.
I saved the PDF to a flash drive, my movements precise and deliberate. I printed a hard copy and slipped it into a glossy folder. Tonight was the final Gala planning meeting. It was the last meeting before the event. My timing, I thought, was impeccable. I would walk in there, not with a promising lead, but with a monumental, undeniable victory.
Brenda couldn’t spin this. She couldn’t table it or dismiss it. It was a done deal. All she had to do was sign on the dotted line. I pictured the look on her face, on all their faces, and felt a surge of pride so powerful it almost brought tears to my eyes. This was what it was all for. All the secret emails, the late nights, the biting my tongue through napkin debates. It was all about to pay off.
The Final Approach
I walked into the community center basement that evening feeling ten feet tall. The folder with the Aethelgard letter was tucked under my arm, a secret weapon sheathed in blue cardstock.
The mood was a mix of frantic energy and exhaustion. The Gala was only two weeks away. Volunteers were bustling around, sorting name tags and organizing auction items into color-coded bins. Brenda stood in the center of it all, directing traffic with the serene calm of a general who has already won the war.
“No, no, Janet,” she was saying gently to a flustered-looking woman holding a gift basket. “The artisanal cheese selection goes in the ‘Gourmet Delights’ section, not ‘Home & Hearth.’ It’s a completely different vibe.”
I waited for a lull in the chaos, catching Maria’s eye across the room. I gave her a small, subtle nod. She knew I was planning to reveal the sponsorship tonight, and she gave me a thumbs-up of encouragement.
Finally, Brenda clapped her hands together, a sound that was both cheerful and commanding. “Alright, ladies, let’s gather ’round for our final check-in! Find a seat, find a seat!”
We all shuffled to the metal chairs. My heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I had my little speech planned. I would wait until she got to the fundraising update, and then I would stand up and change the world. Or at least, Haven House’s little corner of it.
“Okay, a few quick updates,” Brenda began, beaming at us. “The caterer is confirmed, the floral arrangements are going to be just stunning, and I have to give a special shout-out to the decorations committee. You’ve truly outdone yourselves.”
She went through the list, ticking off items with practiced ease. I gripped the folder in my lap, my knuckles white. Any second now.
“And finally,” she said, her voice taking on a new, important tone. “The most exciting part. I’ve been holding this one close to the vest, because I wanted to wait until it was one hundred percent confirmed. But I am thrilled to announce that we have officially secured our title sponsor for the Gala.”
My stomach dropped. *What?*
The Executive Decision
A wave of excited murmurs went through the room. I just stared at her, my carefully prepared speech turning to ash in my mouth. This wasn’t possible.
Brenda held up a hand for silence, a beatific smile plastered on her face. “As you all know, our goal has always been to partner with sponsors who truly share our community-focused values. We want partners, not just patrons. That’s why I am so, so proud to announce that our title sponsor for this year’s Gala will be… Miller & Sons Construction!”
The name hit me like a physical blow. *Miller.* It was her husband’s company.
A smattering of enthusiastic applause broke out. Several women who knew her husband, a beefy, amiable man named Frank, looked over at Brenda and beamed.
I felt the blood drain from my face. I couldn’t breathe.
“Frank and his company have been so generous,” Brenda continued, practically glowing. “They’ve pledged a sponsorship of seven thousand, five hundred dollars!”
Seven thousand, five hundred dollars.
The number hung in the air, a pathetic little firecracker compared to the nuclear bomb of a figure tucked inside my folder. The women were all nodding and smiling, thrilled. It was a big donation, the biggest they’d ever gotten from a single sponsor. They had no idea.
My mind was reeling. She must have done this after I told her I was working on something. She must have gone to her husband to secure a deal—any deal—so she could announce it first, effectively blocking mine. It was a preemptive strike.
I felt a hot, sickening wave of rage wash over me. I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. The room fell silent. Every eye was on me.
“Brenda,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet.
She turned to me, her smile unwavering but her eyes hard. “Yes, Sarah? Do you have something to add?”
“I… I also secured a sponsor,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. I held up the folder. “Aethelgard Corp. They’ve committed to a grant of one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.”
You could have heard a pin drop. The silence was absolute, heavy, and stunned. The women stared at me, then at Brenda, their faces a mixture of confusion and shock. One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. The number was so huge it seemed fictional.
Brenda’s smile finally vanished. For a split second, I saw a flash of pure, undiluted fury in her eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a look of deep, sorrowful concern. She looked at me the way you would look at a child who had just run into traffic.
She took a slow breath. “Oh, Sarah,” she said, her voice dripping with pity. “Honey. That is… that is so incredible that you went out and did that. Truly. Your passion is just… astounding.”
She paused, letting the patronizing praise settle. “Unfortunately, I had to make an executive decision a few days ago. I was made aware of your… discussions… with Aethelgard. And while the number is certainly impressive, I had to do what was best for the group’s long-term integrity.”
She turned her gaze to the rest of the room, speaking to them, not to me. “Aethelgard is a massive, global entity. They have their own agenda. Getting into bed with a company like that… it can change a group like ours. They start making demands, wanting a seat on the board, influencing our mission. Miller & Sons, on the other hand, is a local business. They are our neighbors, our friends. Their values are our values. This partnership is pure. It’s from the heart.”
She looked back at me, her expression one of gentle regret. “I know this is disappointing. But my first responsibility is to protect the soul of this organization. I had to go with the partner that was a better fit for our mission. I’m sure you all understand.”
And just like that, she’d done it. She had turned my staggering victory into a reckless, naive misstep. She wasn’t the person who had just cost the shelter over a hundred thousand dollars. No. She was the valiant guardian of our integrity, protecting us from the seductive allure of dirty corporate money. I was the fool who had almost sold our soul.
The Aftermath
I don’t remember the rest of the meeting. It was like watching a movie through a thick pane of glass. I saw people’s mouths moving. I saw them turn to congratulate Brenda on her “thoughtful leadership.” I saw Maria shoot me a look of helpless, horrified sympathy.
I just sat there, clutching my useless folder, the crisp letter from Aethelgard feeling like a judgment. The rage in my chest was so immense, so profound, it had burned past sound and fury and settled into a cold, dense singularity in my gut.
When the meeting finally broke, I walked out without a word to anyone. I got in my car and drove, my hands locked on the steering wheel. I didn’t go straight home. I drove to a scenic overlook, a place where teenagers usually went to make out, and parked the car, staring out at the city lights.
I didn’t cry. I was too angry to cry.
She had done it on purpose. It was a power play, pure and simple. It had never been about the money or the mission or the “soul of the group.” It was about control. My idea was too big. My success would have been too great. It would have made me an alternate center of gravity in her tidy, predictable universe. So she had to burn it to the ground. And she’d used her husband’s respectable, but comparatively pathetic, donation as a fire extinguisher.
The worst part, the part that truly made my blood boil, was that she had done it all with a smile. She had robbed abused women and children of a life-changing sum of money and managed to frame it as an act of moral courage.
I finally drove home. Mark was on the couch reading. He looked up as I came in, and his face immediately fell. “Oh, honey. It went that badly?”
I didn’t answer. I walked into the living room, dropped the folder on the coffee table, and let out a single, guttural scream of pure, undiluted rage. It wasn’t loud, but it was raw and ugly. I then picked up a decorative cushion from the sofa and threw it as hard as I could against the opposite wall. It hit with a soft, unsatisfying *thump*.
Mark didn’t say a word. He just got up, came over, and wrapped his arms around me as I stood shaking in the middle of the room. He didn’t offer solutions or platitudes. He just held me.
“I’m not quitting,” I finally whispered, my voice hoarse. “That’s what she wants. She wants me to get angry and quit. I’m not giving her the satisfaction.”
He pulled back, looking me in the eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Then what are you going to do?”
A new thought began to form in the cold, hard center of my anger. It was a terrible, petty, and deeply satisfying idea.
“I’m going to nominate her for an award,” I said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across my face. “I’m going to praise her into oblivion.”
A Crown of Thorns: The Spark of Malice
That night, sleep was a foreign country I couldn’t get a visa for. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying Brenda’s performance over and over in my head. The calculated pity, the weaponized “integrity,” the sheer, galling audacity of it all. The anger was no longer a hot flash; it had cooled into something sharper and more durable. It was a shard of ice in my heart.
Quitting was a loser’s game. It would be a quiet surrender, a footnote in Brenda’s long and benevolent reign. She would tell the group I’d left due to “creative differences,” her tone implying I just wasn’t a team player. No, I couldn’t quit. But I couldn’t stay like this, either, slowly being poisoned by a thousand tiny cuts of passive aggression.
I rolled over and picked up my phone, the screen’s glow ridiculously bright in the dark room. I started scrolling aimlessly through my emails, deleting junk, when I saw it. It was a generic newsletter from a regional non-profit coalition, one of those things I usually deleted without reading. The subject line was: “Nominations Now Open for the Clara Barton Regional Volunteer Award!”
I tapped it open. My eyes scanned the description. “…honoring a local leader whose tireless dedication and hands-on approach have made a significant impact on their community organization…”
*Tireless dedication. Hands-on approach.*
The words echoed Brenda’s entire persona. She was tireless. She was certainly hands-on. So hands-on she suffocated every other hand that tried to help.
A plan, intricate and terrible, began to crystallize in my mind. It was an idea born of pure, unadulterated spite, but it was dressed in the robes of reverence. I wouldn’t fight Brenda on her terms. I wouldn’t challenge her authority directly. That was a game I could never win.
Instead, I would use her greatest strength—her own ego—as the weapon of her demise. I would build her a pedestal so high she wouldn’t be able to see the trapdoor beneath it. I clicked the link to the nomination form. The spark of malice had found dry kindling.
Weaving the Golden Cage
The next morning, I began my work. The nomination required a 1,000-word essay and at least five supporting testimonials from other group members. This was not a task to be rushed. It required the precision of a poet and the subtlety of a spy.
I started writing the essay, framing Brenda’s worst qualities as her most admirable strengths. Her obsessive control became “a meticulous, detail-oriented leadership style that ensures no task is overlooked.” Her refusal to delegate was transformed into “a willingness to bear the heaviest burdens herself, protecting her fellow volunteers from burnout.” Her habit of shutting down new ideas was “a prudent and steadying influence, ensuring the group stays true to its core mission without being distracted by fleeting trends.”
It was the most creatively dishonest thing I had ever written. And it was brilliant.
The testimonials were trickier. I couldn’t just ask people for negative quotes. I had to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I started with Maria. I caught her after a meeting, my face a perfect mask of resigned sincerity.
“Maria,” I said, my voice low. “I know things have been… tense. But I’ve been thinking. Maybe Brenda was right. Maybe I was too aggressive. In any case, I’ve decided to do something positive. I’m nominating her for the Clara Barton Award. She really does work so hard.”
Maria looked at me, her expression a mix of pity and disbelief. “You’re… nominating her?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I was hoping you might provide a short quote for the nomination. Something about her leadership. You know, to show group unity.”
The unspoken message was clear: *Play along.*
A slow smile spread across Maria’s face as understanding dawned. “Of course,” she said. “I’d be happy to.”
The quote she emailed me later that day was a masterpiece of doublespeak: “Brenda’s leadership is truly hands-on. She has a hand in every single detail of our operations, ensuring that her vision is executed perfectly.”
I moved on to others. Carol, the retired accountant whose budget idea had been so gracefully shot down. Janet, the woman who’d been schooled on the “vibe” of artisanal cheese. I gave them all the same speech, a performance of a woman who had seen the error of her ways and was now Brenda’s biggest cheerleader.
Their quotes rolled in, each one a perfectly disguised complaint gift-wrapped as a compliment.
“Brenda isn’t afraid to make the tough executive decisions, even when others might disagree. She always does what she believes is best for the group.”
“You never have to wonder who is in charge at a meeting. Brenda provides clear, constant, and unwavering direction.”
“She has an incredible memory. She never forgets a suggestion you’ve made, even if she has to ‘table it’ for consideration at a later date.”
I compiled them all, weaving them into my essay. The nomination package was a Trojan horse, beautiful and gleaming on the outside, filled with damning truths within. I read the final version and felt a cold, thrilling sense of satisfaction. It was a love letter written in poison ink.
The Long, Patient Wait
Submitting the nomination was the easy part. The hard part was the waiting. And the acting.
I had to become the model volunteer. I showed up early to meetings. I praised Brenda’s choice of napkin color. I complimented her on how smoothly the Gala was coming together, now sponsored by her husband’s esteemed construction company.
“It just feels so much more ‘community,’ you know?” I said to her one evening, my expression earnest. “You really made the right call, Brenda. My vision was too corporate. Too cold.”
She soaked it up, her magnanimous smile returning in full force. She saw a dissenter who had been brought back into the fold, a problem that had solved itself. My compliance was proof of her superior wisdom. She had no idea she was fattening herself up for the slaughter.
The Gala came and went. It was a success, by Brenda’s standards. It raised sixty-eight thousand dollars, after Frank’s seven-thousand-five-hundred-dollar contribution was factored in. Everyone celebrated. Brenda gave a tearful speech, thanking her husband for his “unwavering community spirit.”
I stood at the back of the room, sipping a glass of cheap Chardonnay, and toasted her silently. I thought of the extra fifty-seven thousand dollars we didn’t have. The beds that wouldn’t be bought, the counselors that wouldn’t be hired. And my resolve hardened.
Weeks turned into a month, then two. The awards committee was deliberating. Every time my phone buzzed with a new email, my stomach did a little flip. I was a coiled spring, my patience stretched to its absolute limit. It was a new kind of stress, a slow-burning anxiety fueled by a thirst for a very specific, very petty form of justice.
Mark watched me with a mixture of awe and concern. “Are you sure about this?” he asked one night. “What if it backfires?”
“It can’t backfire,” I said, more to convince myself than him. “The worst-case scenario is she wins an award. My best-case scenario is she wins an award.”
Hoisted by Her Own Petard
The email arrived on a Wednesday morning, just like the one from Aethelgard had. The subject line was “Clara Barton Regional Volunteer Award Announcement.”
My hands were perfectly steady this time. I clicked it open.
*Dear Nominators and Committee Members,*
*We are thrilled to announce the winner of this year’s Clara Barton Award is Ms. Brenda Miller of the Haven House Auxiliary! The committee was exceptionally moved by the glowing testimonials praising her deeply committed, hands-on, and decisive leadership style…*
About the Author
