My mom always believed that hard work carried its own reward. She’d say it often, with paint on her clothes and a brush in her hand: “If you put love into what you do, it always comes back to you.” She meant it. For her, painting homes wasn’t just labor — it was art.
So when she was hired to paint the Donovan mansion — a sprawling estate everyone in town knew belonged to one of the richest families around — she was thrilled.
Mr. Donovan had the kind of cold, sharp presence that made you feel small. Tall, always in expensive suits, with that calculating look in his eyes. But when he hired her, he seemed polite enough. “I’ve heard good things about you,” he said warmly, shaking her hand. Mom’s face lit up, certain this was her big chance.
For three long weeks, she worked harder than I’d ever seen her work. Up before sunrise, back home after dark, humming to herself on tall ladders while carefully transforming every wall. Other tradespeople came and went — electricians, carpenters, landscapers. Mom befriended them all, sharing sandwiches on breaks and filling the worksite with kindness. Soon, everyone admired her dedication.
And when the job was finally done, the mansion looked reborn. The dreary gray walls were now warm, glowing, and inviting. We stood back, proud.
“You’ve made it beautiful,” I told her.
She squeezed my hand, eyes shining. “I can’t wait to hear what Mr. Donovan thinks.”
But when she stepped into his study with her invoice in hand, everything changed.
“I’m not paying you,” Mr. Donovan said coldly, barely glancing up from his desk.
My mom froze. “I don’t understand. I completed the job — everything we agreed.”
A smug grin tugged at his lips. “Your work isn’t worth the price. Take it as a lesson. Leave.”
I’ll never forget the silence that followed. Her shoulders sagged, tears brimming in her eyes. She whispered, “That’s not fair. I worked so hard.”
“That’s your problem, not mine,” he replied dismissively, already turning back to his papers.
We left in silence. In the car, I could see her fighting back tears, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. “It’s not fair,” I muttered.
She forced a sad smile. “Life isn’t always fair, honey. But people who take advantage of others… they don’t escape forever. Things always balance out.”
I wanted to believe her, but anger boiled inside me. Mr. Donovan thought he could cheat her just because he had money and power. He needed to be taught a lesson.
Days later, word spread: Mr. Donovan was hosting a grand party at the mansion — to show off the home my mom had painted. That’s when the idea struck me.
I reached out to some of the workers who’d been on-site. They hadn’t been treated well by Donovan either, and when I explained what I wanted to do, they agreed instantly. “He doesn’t deserve to show off her work,” one said. “We’ll help.”
The plan was simple. The gardener would rig the sprinklers. The electrician would tamper with the lights. I’d be at the fuse box. Together, we’d ruin the show he wanted so badly.
The night of the party, the mansion blazed with lights. Guests in gowns and suits filled the driveway, eager to admire Donovan’s grand home. I slipped in unnoticed.
Inside, the event was in full swing. Champagne glasses clinked, music played, and Donovan strutted like a king in front of his guests. I waited, heart pounding. Then, the signal: a flicker in the lights.
I pulled the switch.
Instantly, the mansion went black. Gasps rippled through the crowd. And then — the sprinklers exploded to life, drenching the guests, soaking dresses and tuxedos, and turning the polished floors into a slippery mess.
Chaos erupted. People screamed, rushing for the doors. Flowers, decorations, and food dissolved into soggy heaps. Mr. Donovan himself slipped in the puddles, flailing as his designer suit became a mud-soaked wreck.
It was glorious.
By the next morning, word of the fiasco had spread across town. His reputation — once untouchable — was suddenly a joke. Stories of his arrogance and mistreatment of workers surfaced quickly. People didn’t want to hire him, work for him, or even associate with him.
Meanwhile, my mom’s reputation soared. New clients sought her out, praising the beauty of her work and the dedication she put into every project. She was never short of jobs after that.
Weeks later, we saw Donovan at the grocery store. He was quieter, humbled, no smug grin in sight. He gave Mom a stiff nod, almost sheepish. She returned his nod with her head held high, dignity intact.
She didn’t need revenge. She had moved on, stronger than ever. But karma? Karma had delivered justice in a way he’d never forget.