Jealous Mom

I pull into the driveway, exhausted from another brutal day at the office. The fluorescent lights, the endless meetings... I just want to collapse on the couch with a glass of wine.

But as I grab my bag from the passenger seat, something catches my eye — a silver sedan parked behind my car. I frown. Is that... Lisa's car?

I check my phone. No missed calls, no texts. She never mentioned coming over today.

The front door is unlocked. I step inside quietly, setting my keys on the entry table without their usual clatter. The house feels different somehow — charged, alive.

Then I hear it. A soft sound from upstairs. Muffled. My heart rate picks up.

I slip off my heels, padding barefoot toward the staircase, each step careful, deliberate. The sounds grow clearer as I ascend — breathless gasps, the rhythmic creak of bedsprings.

My bedroom door is cracked open just enough. I press my back against the wall beside it, my breath shallow, and slowly tilt my head to peer through the gap.

And there they are.

Lisa — my best friend of fifteen years — tangled in my sheets with... my eighteen-year-old

I don't make a sound. My hand covers my mouth. My heart is hammering against my ribs.