My Badass Aunts Saved My Life

The first time I saw our new neighbor, the floating text materialized out of thin air.

[This poor female lead. Her parents despise her, her brother loathes her, her husband discarded her, and now shes dying of cancer.]

[To think she survived being bullied in high school and sexually harassed by her boss, only for everyone to blame her. Maybe death really is her only escape.]

[Do it. Jump off the roof. End this miserable, unloved life.]

I stared at those blood-chilling words hovering in my field of vision like a translucent live-stream chat. Then, I looked at the girl standing on the edge of the roofa girl so utterly hollowed out, there wasn't a single spark of light left in her eyes.

I lunged forward, grabbed her by the collar, and yanked her hard onto the safety of the concrete. Without missing a beat, I pulled out my phone and dialed the girls.

"I need the sharpest tongues we've got. We've got a war to win. Hustle!"

From those floating comments, I pieced together the absurd reality: I was living inside a trashy, tragic romance novelthe kind where the heroine suffers endlessly just so the men in her life can feel guilty later.

And the girl Id just dragged off the roof was Summer, the protagonist.

She was pure-hearted, kind, and hardworking. But because of a million contrived, tragic reasons, her twenty-odd years on this earth had been nothing but suffocating darkness. She had tried to save herself a thousand times. Yet the very people bound to her by blood and lawher so-called family and her husbandkept shoving her back into the abyss.

Her voice had been entirely stripped from her. She believed the only way to prove her innocence, to finally be heard, was to die.

Oh, you foolish, sweet girl, I thought. What on earth could possibly be more important than breathing? So you lost an argument? Big deal. Well just help you scream louder.

As an NPC in this universeone of the neighborhood busybodies whose only apparent literary function was to gossip and play cardsI possessed a very specific set of skills. And if theres one thing a seasoned American woman cannot stomach, its seeing a good girl bullied.

"Listen to me, honey," I told her, cupping her pale face. "Some people are just born trash. If you don't curse them out, they'll think your silence is an invitation to walk all over you."

"You don't even have to lift a finger," Marge chimed in, already rolling up her sleeves. "You just need to know that there isn't a soul alive that a pack of pissed-off old women can't handle."

"Man, woman, young, olddoesn't matter," Shirley added, waving a dismissive hand. "We sit our asses down, kick off our shoes, and start clapping our hands. I guarantee well have those bastards trembling in their designer loafers."

"They will never dare look at you sideways again! And don't you worry about the cost, sweetie. Cursing people out is entirely free. We consider it vocal cardio. Don't you dare feel guilty!"

The girls practically tripped over each other bragging about their past "victories," terrified Summer might underestimate our sheer, unadulterated audacity.

Of course, while our mouths ran a mile a minute, our hands were just as busy. Diane was sweeping and mopping the apartment. Helen was aggressively chopping vegetables in the kitchen. The rest of us had already corralled Summer at the table and set up the Mahjong tiles.

Summer held her tiles with a blank, shattered expression. Amidst our chaotic, deafening chatter, just as she was trying to figure out what tile to discard, her phone buzzed.

It was Carter. Her brother.

The second she answered, the vitriol bled through the speaker, slicing through the noise of our apartment. We froze, and I immediately reached over and tapped the speakerphone button.

"Summer, who the hell do you think you are, skipping work?" Carter barked. "Your little stunt just cost the company a ten-million-dollar account. How exactly do you plan on paying us back for that?"

Summer flinched. The tiny furrow between her brows deepened, and the absolute grayness swept back over her face, extinguishing whatever small warmth our kitchen had given her.

Right then, a new comment floated past my eyes:

[If she hadn't skipped work, she would have been cornered by that disgusting executive today.]

[It was Blairthe evil fake sisterwho completely botched the pitch! Why is Summer taking the fall for a lost account?]

[In these switched-at-birth tropes, the biological daughter always bleeds for the golden child's mistakes!]

I narrowed my eyes. I leaned right into the phone's microphone and unleashed hell.

"Let me get this straight," I snapped. "Because Summer took a sick day, your company lost a ten-million-dollar deal? So, am I to understand that your entire corporate roster is a bunch of incompetent morons who can't close a single contract without her?"

"Good lord, Summer must be an absolute prodigy! I wonder what her compensation package looks like? Oh, wait. Three thousand dollars a month. No housing, no benefits. Its a goddamn joke!"

"You want an entry-level employee making pennies to shoulder a ten-million-dollar loss? If you're that good at shifting the blame, why aren't you running for President?"

Summer stared at me, her mouth slightly ajar.

On the other end of the line, the haughty brother was struck entirely dumb.

"Who... who the hell is this? Put Summer on the phone."

I let out a harsh, venomous laugh. "I'm your worst nightmare, buddy. You want to talk to Summer? Get on your knees and grovel first. If I'm in a charitable mood, I might let a scumbag like you breathe in her general direction."

"Summer! Is this your idea of manners? Letting some stranger insult your own brother?"

I cackled. "Oh, manners? You want to talk about manners? What kind of well-bred gentleman treats the girl who stole his sister's life like a princess, while treating his actual flesh and blood like a punching bag?"

"You don't know anything!" he spat. "Summer has been a vicious, manipulative bitch since she got here. I acknowledge her as my sister, and she should be grateful for the charity!"

I rolled my eyes so hard it physically hurt. "You pathetic, gaslighting loser. You can't even close a business deal without blaming a junior employee. The dumbbells at my local gym don't need your 'charity,' let alone a brilliant girl like Summer."

"If your business is failing, look in the mirror. If you needed her to save your pitch, then you call with some damn respect, not acting like you're God's gift to the boardroom!"

"I don't care what lies your precious little fake sister has been feeding you. Do not call this number again. As of today, Summer is fresh out of brothers!"

Click. I hung up. Blocked the number. Deleted the contact. A flawless, scorched-earth execution.

The girls cheered, clapping their hands and telling me what a spectacular job Id done. And there, sitting amidst the deafening warmth of a mid-morning Mahjong game, the heroine finally managed a tiny, fragile smile.

"Alright, alright, clear the table! Food's ready!" Helen hollered from the kitchen.

We swept the tiles away in seconds. When the dishes hit the table, we descended like a flock of aggressive mother hens. We piled her bowl high with roasted chicken, garlic ribs, and buttery mashed potatoes until it looked like a small mountain.

"Eat up. You're practically skin and bones. You need meat on you!"

"Once you've got your strength up, we're taking you straight to the hospital tomorrow to get looked at."

"You're young, honey, whatever it is, you'll fight it. Look at mebreast cancer survivor of thirty years and I'm still raising hell."

"Finish that plate, and you're coming to Zumba with us. I'm telling you, the one thing sickness hates most is a woman who knows how to have a good time!"

"You stick with us, sweetie. We'll make sure you never stop smiling."

Summer quietly chewed her food. Her eyes went glassy, the rims flushing a deep, bruised red.

I knew what it was. She was utterly starved for love.

Well, it was a good thing my girls and I had a suffocating, aggressive amount of love to give. We had enough to fill every hollow space her family had carved out of her.

The next day, Marge and I marched Summer into the oncology wing.

Just as the floating text had prophesied, it was late-stage cancer.

The doctors told us that after a surgical resection, she would need aggressive chemotherapy and radiation. The road ahead was long, brutal, and terrifying.

I looked the oncologist dead in the eye and asked for a timeline.

"If she fights," the doctor said softly, "and if we can get her through this first year... she'll cross the hardest hurdle. After that, another ten or twenty years isn't out of the question."

Relief washed over me. I grabbed Summer's hand, ready to march down to billing and book the surgery suite.

But Summer planted her feet. She looked down at the linoleum floor. "I don't have the money. Maybe... maybe we should just let it be. The treatments are going to cost too much."

Right on cue, the translucent text flickered into view:

[Her parents are filthy rich. Her brother is loaded. Her husband is a millionaire. But she's practically destitute!]

[It's not that she hasn't thought about asking them for help. But the misunderstandings are so deeply rooted, and they despise her so much, she knows they'd rather watch her die. Ugh!]

I stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle. Then, I turned to Marge.

"Call the troops."

Marge raised an eyebrow. "What are we doing? Robbing a bank?"

I waved my hand dismissively. "No. We're collecting a debt."

It took some doing. Summer hesitated, terrified of the confrontation, but we eventually bullied her into the passenger seat. Thirty minutes later, we were storming the wrought-iron gates of the Kensington estate.

The moment we crossed the threshold into the immaculate, marble-floored foyer, Marge and Shirley put on a masterclass. They dramatically kicked off their orthopedics, dropped right onto the custom Persian rug, and made it perfectly clear: We are not leaving until we get paid.

Diane and Helen unfolded the canvas lawn chairs they'd brought with them, popping open cans of Diet Coke and cracking sunflower seeds right onto the pristine floors.

I stood flanked by the rest of our sharp-tongued brigade, keeping Summer tucked safely behind us as we faced our targets.

Mr. and Mrs. Kensington. A housekeeper. A driver.

When Mrs. Kensingtondripping in pearls and disdainrealized we were there for money, a sneer twisted her perfectly Botoxed face. She waved a manicured hand, instructing the housekeeper to fetch some cash. She literally tried to hand us each a few crisp hundred-dollar bills, like we were stray dogs she could shoo off the porch.

The humiliation in the room was palpable. I could feel the heat radiating off Summer's burning cheeks.

Without missing a beat, we took those bills and tossed them right back into Mrs. Kensington's face.

She gasped, her eyes flashing with cold fury. "Summer, where on earth did you find these panhandlers? Did you really think bringing a bunch of greedy vagrants into my home would shake me down for more?"

"My aunts are not panhandlers" Summer started, her voice trembling.

I gently patted her hand. I met her eyes, silently telling her: I've got this.

Then, I squared my shoulders, flanked by my sisters in arms, and engaged combat mode.

"Ahem." I cleared my throat loudly, planting both hands firmly on my hips. I tilted my chin up, took a deep breath, and let it rip.

"We didn't come here to beg for your pocket change, Patricia. We came here for justice! We did our homework. Summer has worked at the Kensington Corporation for five years. For five years, she has been denied promotions. When she asked HR, they said the CEO wouldn't approve it. When she tried to resign, the CEO blocked it. Five years, and she is still making a pathetic three grand a month! Meanwhile, your fake daughterwho just graduated three months agogets fast-tracked from intern to the CEO's executive assistant, pulling in fifty grand a month! I want to know, on what planet is that fair? Is it just blatant favoritism, or is it a malicious, targeted campaign against your own biological flesh and blood?"

Mr. Kensington scowled, adjusting his tailored suit jacket with arrogant dismissal. "It is neither. Summer's professional capabilities simply do not measure up to Blair's. She has made repeated mistakes over the last five years. The fact that I even allow her to remain on the payroll is an act of extreme grace on my part."

I didn't blink. I reached into my tote bag and pulled out a thick, bound portfolio Summer had prepared for me earlier, slamming it onto the glass coffee table in front of them.

"Then I suggest you put on your reading glasses, Richard, and look at the actual receipts."

Mrs. Kensingtons face faltered. "What is this?"

"These," I enunciated clearly, "are the proposals, pitch decks, and executed contracts Summer has spearheaded over the last five years. While your golden boy Carter was busy playing golf and screwing around, Summer was bleeding herself dry for your bottom line. She closed deal after deal. And the commission bonuses for every single one of those contracts? Swallowed whole by Carter and your precious little Blair."

Mr. Kensington blanched, his arrogant facade slipping. "That's impossible!"

Mrs. Kensington clenched her jaw, her eyes darting nervously. "Summer, you are so desperate for cash you've lost your mind! You're fabricating lies now? Carter and Blair would never stoop so low!"

Hearing her parents instantly defend the people who had abused her, Summer let out a quiet, desolate laugh.

It was exactly as it had always been. Under the crushing weight of their prejudice, any attempt Summer made to fight back only resulted in her own bruising.

But thankfully...

Today, she wasn't fighting alone.