Chapter 5 - The Peterson Family Counterattack
If Mark thought financial shock would make me crawl back, my mother-in-law Carol proved that arrogance runs deep in the Peterson bloodline.
By Saturday morning, the front lawn of my Evanston home was graced by an unwelcome sight: Carol and Frank’s silver Mercedes parked squarely across my driveway, blocking my car in.
I was in the kitchen helping Lily make heart-shaped pancakes when the front doorbell began to ring in a rhythmic, aggressive assault.
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
I walked to the front door, checked the peephole, and saw Carol standing on the porch with her arms crossed over a Chanel tweed coat, her face twisted in a mask of outraged entitlement. Behind her, Frank stood puffing on an unlit cigar like a Victorian landlord about to evict a peasant.
I opened the door, leaving the security chain latched.
“Open this door immediately, Chloe!” Carol shrieked before I could even draw a breath. “Have you lost your absolute mind? Freezing our accounts? Sponsoring eviction threats against people who raised my son? You ungrateful little climber!”
“Good morning, Carol,” I said, my voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm. “Nice of you to drop by unannounced. Did the CTA bus drop you off, or did you have to walk since your Mercedes was repossessed by the bank yesterday afternoon?”
Carol gasped, clutching her pearls as if she’d been physically struck. “How dare you! Frank, do you hear how she’s speaking to me? She’s insane! She needs to be institutionalized!”
Frank stepped forward, pressing his face against the crack of the door. “Listen to me, young lady,” he barked in his best boardroom voice. “You are going to call your lawyer right now, reverse whatever childish financial stunt you pulled, and apologize to Megan for your violent outburst at Thanksgiving. If you don't, we will ensure you never see a dime of Peterson money in the divorce settlements, and we will petition the court for grandparent visitation rights to save that poor child from your toxic influence!”
I stared at them. Truly stared at them.
For seven years, men like Frank Peterson had intimidated me with booming voices and inherited authority. I had shrunk from their anger, apologized for existing, and smoothed over their mistakes.
Now, looking at them through the crack of the door, all I saw were two pathetic, aging narcissists standing on a porch they didn't own, threatening me with weapons that had already been dismantled.
“Frank,” I said softly, the amusement clearly evident in my tone. “What Peterson money?”
He blinked. “What?”
“What Peterson money are you talking about?” I repeated. “Your pension was wiped out in the 2018 crypto scam your broker cousin dragged you into. Your corporate stock options expired worthless five years ago. And the only reason you haven't been living in a studio apartment in Gary, Indiana, is because my corporate dividend checks were quietly paying your condo fees every single month.”
Frank’s jaw dropped. The unlit cigar slipped from his fingers, bouncing off the welcome mat.
“You... you couldn't possibly know that,” Frank stammered, his bravado instantly evaporating into a puddle of sweat.
“I’m a tech entrepreneur, Frank. Data is my native language,” I smiled. “And as for your threat about grandparent visitation?”
I unlatched the security chain, pulled the door wide open, and stepped out onto the porch, towering over both of them despite my lack of height.
May you like
“If you, or Megan, or Mark ever come within five hundred feet of my daughter again, I won't just foreclose on your condo. I’ll publish every financial audit, every fraudulent tax filing, and every bounced check bearing the Peterson name on the front page of the Chicago Tribune. Now... get off my property before I call the police and have you towed.”
Carol opened her mouth, closed it, grabbed Frank’s arm, and practically sprinted down the walkway toward their stranded Mercedes.
