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A Haunting of Revenge-Short Story Collection

By Jann Franklin

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“This is ridiculous! Why do I have to babysit on a Saturday night?”
Did Mother hear the injustice in my voice? It couldn’t hurt to tweak my tone a little, make it less whiny and more authoritative.
“Mel, I’ve explained the situation. Mr. and Mrs. Miller planned this anniversary dinner last month! Their sitter broke her leg in a tragic forklift accident, and I assured them you’d watch their kids. Charlotte is a dear friend, and I hardly ask anything of you. Sacrificing one Saturday night isn’t going to affect your success in life, believe me.”
We’d see about that. My mind fast forwarded to a time in the future when I would receive the coveted letter in the mail. The letter from The Norwegian Nobel Committee, notifying me I’d been nominated. After blasting social media with my accolades, I’d prepare for the assessment and examination by the committee. During my interview, I’d confess to my unfortunate Saturday evening. My mother, I’d explain, had forced me to sacrifice socialization and entertainment to babysit two bratty children. Because I was an obedient daughter, I’d complied. The committee would confer, shaking their heads in disbelief about my misfortune. Then Professor Carl-Henrik Heldin, or Henry, as I would refer to my dear friend and colleague, would rise from his chair.
“Mel, again I thank you for the scrumptious pralines you brought us today. However, it is with a heavy heart that I tell you we cannot award you this year’s Nobel Peace Prize. Personally, we thought you couldn’t lose until we heard of your unfortunate incident. If only you’d been allowed to go out with your friends that fateful Saturday night twelve years ago! Please accept our apologies and, do leave the praline recipe with the secretary.”
My mother and I faced off, arms crossed and eyes locked. Who was I kidding? She had my father backing her, not to mention I occupied their house. My outburst served as an opportunity to voice my unhappiness, nothing more.
My hands reached toward the ceiling, as if pleading for divine intervention.
“Fine! Text me the address and time. How much am I getting paid?” Hands on hips, then crossed again. “Or am I getting paid?”
My mother’s arms reached towards me, brushing a stray chunk of hair behind my shoulder. “As our anniversary gift to the Millers, I told Charlotte we’d pay you. Normally, I’d spend a hundred dollars on a gift for twenty-five years of marriage. How does that sound?”
It sounded better than any babysitting gig I’d ever booked.
“Of course, it will go into your college fund.”
That was my mother—always had the last word.

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