From the moment I got slapped with divorce papers from my ex, Harold, 32, a year ago, I knew things weren’t going to be easy. I’m Zephyr, 27, and I was married to that man for way too long.

Things weren’t always bad. I had a decent relationship with his family, including his mother, Bernadette, 57. But when Harold went through a strange gym bro/hipster phase, everything changed.

By the end, I signed those papers with relief, to be honest. I just didn’t expect co-parenting to be such a nightmare. The past year has been mostly me raising our Phineas, 4, and trying to make ends meet.

To make matters worse, Bernadette turned on me after the separation as if I was the one who decided to leave her precious “golden boy.”

And although I’ve been barely surviving with my son, she’s obsessed with this idea that I’m using her son’s child support to pamper myself. She seems on a mission to “catch” me now.

Let me explain a little more. A few months ago, on a Sunday, Harold’s sister, Annie, held a barbecue for her son’s birthday at Madison Park, a nice place near my home. I decided to take Phineas as he hadn’t seen his cousins in a while.

But I also wanted to look nice because Annie and her friends were married to some of the richest men in the city.

I wore a gray sweater that I found at a sale for almost nothing. It was the first new piece of clothing I’d bought myself in months.

I felt in good spirits. Once we got settled into the party, I exchanged some pleasantries with the other moms, watching Phineas running around with some other kids. That’s why I didn’t notice when Bernadette cornered me by the picnic tables.

She had her signature pearl necklace and an expression like she’d just smelled something awful; it was the face she had every time she saw me after the divorce. But this time, I knew something had set her off. It was my sweater.

“I see you’re treating yourself well,” she said, reaching out to finger the sleeve. “Designer?”

“I think so, but I got it at Ross, Bernadette,” I replied, wanting so badly to roll my eyes.

“Liar!” she snapped. Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth puckered even more than a minute ago. “It must be nice to buy luxuries on my son’s hard-earned money!”

“That’s not what I’m doing—”

“Listen here, you little opportunist! I’m going to need you to show me every penny of the child support that you spend!” She shook her finger at me. “My son’s money is for my grandson, not your shopping sprees. I want receipts!”

“Bernadette, for God’s sake! This isn’t any of your business.”

“Everything involving my son and grandson’s welfare is my business,” she said while adjusting her pearls. “Harold tells me he’s been very generous with child support.”

I couldn’t help but scoff. “He thinks a few hundred bucks a month covers diapers, daycare, and rent? Maybe in 1952.”

“Stop lying!” she snapped. “My son works hard for his money and to provide for his child! The divorce was your choice! So, I want documentation. Every receipt, every expense. Prove you’re spending his money on Phineas.”

My choice? Boy, Harold could lie. But I let that go. “Or what?” I asked instead.

“Or I’ll make sure Harold takes you back to court for misappropriation of funds.”

That’s when something in me snapped. I’d spent the last year trying to make peace, biting my tongue, and playing nice. But this? This was too far.

“You want receipts? Fine,” I said while stepping closer and lowering my voice. “I’ll show you exactly where every penny goes. But be careful what you wish for, Bernadette.”

I saw her gulping at my tone, and she backed off. Before we could say anything else, though, Annie called everyone over to sing Happy Birthday.

***

Over the following days, I compiled everything. I’d been careful and had actually kept every single receipt on everything I spent the past few months.

Not only that, I paid attention to something else: Harold’s Instagram, which kept updating with one extravagant expense after another. He was currently on a ski trip to Aspen with his new girlfriend, Jessica, who was 19.

“Fresh powder and fresh starts,” he wrote under a photo of himself in $400 snow gear.

A week later, there he was at Morton’s Steakhouse. The bottle of wine I saw in that photo costs more than our son’s monthly asthma medication.

Then came the post about his new Audi. “Living my best life,” he captioned everything. Must be nice.

Sighing, I checked my bank account again. His monthly support payment hadn’t increased since the divorce: $200. Phineas’ daycare bill alone was $850.

Finally, after I was ready with enough receipts, I texted Bernadette: “Ready for your audit? Come by tomorrow at 7.”

She showed up right on time with a real designer handbag swinging from her shoulder. I offered her some tea, and we sat down at my kitchen table, where I had everything spread out.

“Here’s your proof,” I handed her each paper, pointing out all the details she needed to understand. “Every receipt, organized by category. Plus bank statements showing Harold’s deposits.”

Bernadette crunched up her nose, but smiled in that “gotcha” way and pulled out her reading glasses. Her fingers began flipping through each paper, and I had the satisfaction of watching her little grin fall.

She had nothing to see but daycare bills three times the size of Harold’s monthly payment. Medical bills. Medication expenses. Clothes from Walmart and Target clearance. Three pairs of shoes for Phineas because preschoolers destroy footwear faster than you’d believe.

“This can’t be right,” she muttered, shuffling through more of the papers. “Harold said he gives you…”

“Two hundred dollars a month,” I finished her sentence. “Do you want to see what your son’s been up to while his kid wears cheap shoes, or do you already know?”

She looked confused, so I pulled up Harold’s social media on my phone. I clicked on the photo of that Audi gleaming in the sunlight. Another had his girlfriend showing off the Cartier bracelet he bought her for their three-month anniversary.

“I mean, I knew he was dating and enjoying life, but I thought…” Bernadette’s face went pale.

“Wait, there’s more,” I stopped her.

More photos showed Harold at expensive restaurants, on more vacations, and in designer clothes that he’d never bought before.

If I had to guess, the total of his visible purchases in just these three weeks came to over $15,000 or more.

“That ski trip to Aspen?” I said quietly. “Cost more than he’s paid in child support all year.”

Bernadette covered her mouth with her hand as I fell silent.

“I didn’t know it was like this,” she whispered after a while.

“Now you do,” I nodded and gathered the receipts back, stuffing them in a folder. “So next time you want to accuse me of misusing funds, remember this moment. Remember looking at proof that I stretch every dollar while your son plays sugar daddy.“

She stood up slowly and grabbed her handbag with shaky fingers. “I’ll talk to him.”

“I’ve already called my lawyer,” I added as I stood and walked her to the door. “He should be served any day now. Court date’s next month. You’re welcome to come see how your son explains his priorities to a judge.”

When Bernadette stepped out of my house, she turned with her mouth open as if to say something else, but I closed the door in her face.

***

On the day of the hearing, I walked into the courtroom alone. A friend was watching Phineas for me. I immediately saw my ex at the other table with his expensive lawyer.

Harold looked bored and annoyed, but he shot me a smug grin, as the judge settled in and everything began.

Except, right in the middle of things, Bernadette walked in, looking like a woman on a mission. I didn’t know this, but she had called my lawyer herself and asked to be here to support… me. My jaw dropped.

Soon, she was called to speak, and Bernadette didn’t hold back. She repeated all I’d explained. Although the judge already had the receipts I’d gathered, it was much more potent to hear it from Harold’s mother.

The judge had his verdict decided that same day. Harold’s support payments would increase tenfold, starting immediately. He also had to cover back support for the past six months.

Outside the courthouse, I hugged Bernadette and cried. When we separated, we saw Harold storming out and sneering at us. We laughed at him.

***

My ex’s life had to drastically change afterward, and his girlfriend obviously left him when he couldn’t splurge on her. He also had to sell the Audi and more of his new things.

I didn’t care because Phineas had new shoes that fit, and I bought myself another sweater for full price.

But the real surprise was that Bernadette now comes over every Sunday for dinner. She brings dessert and helps Phineas with his reading.

Sometimes she looks at the photos on my fridge that show Phineas at the park, at his preschool graduation, playing soccer, etc. And I catch her smiling. We don’t talk about her son, to be honest.

As for Harold? He still posts about “living his best life,” but now he does it in a Honda Civic.

Here’s another story: When Sarah discovered a hidden camera in a photo frame gifted by her mother-in-law, her sense of privacy shattered. The unsettling discovery revealed not only a boundary crossed but also a shocking invasion into her most private moments, sparking a bold plan to expose the truth.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.