My name is Stella, I’m 32 years old, and I work as a designer for an apparel brand. It’s a demanding job, but I love it. My husband, Alex, who works in HR at the same company, and I have a wonderful daughter, Olivia, who just started her freshman year of high school. Starting a new school is tough, and through Olivia, I made an effort to get to know the “mom friends” in her orbit.

One of these women is Amanda. She’s 35, and her husband, Charles, is a high-level government official. I also met Rachel, a part-time worker who is, for all intents and purposes, Amanda’s full-time crony. To be honest, I never had a great impression of them. Amanda is one of those women—bright, beautiful, undeniably charismatic, but also incredibly self-centered. She throws tantrums when things don’t go her way and has a nasty habit of flaunting her husband’s earnings as if they were her own personal achievement. She looks down on everyone, especially other moms. And I, for some reason, became her favorite target. Because I work in fashion and make an effort to dress well (even on a budget, or so she assumed), she treated me like I was part of her entourage, someone she could “fix.” But whenever we met, she would find a way to criticize my “sense of fashion” and make passive-aggressive (and sometimes just aggressive) comments about me being poor.

I wanted to end this toxic relationship, but Olivia had only been in high school for less than a year. I didn’t want to cause trouble with a powerful “mom friend” clique and inadvertently make Olivia’s social life difficult. So, I did what so many of us do: I tried to subtly avoid Amanda, and when I couldn’t, I let her comments slide off me.

But things were getting to a point where I just couldn’t ignore them anymore.

THE BRAG SESSION

“Listen, I’m going to build a new house soon. We have to do lunch!”

One weekend, Amanda called me out to share the same news she’d been sharing for months. Today, it seemed she’d gathered us specifically to brag about the final plans. Spending my precious Saturday listening to Amanda boast felt wasteful, but I’d been turning her down recently and knew I had to “face the music” to keep the peace.

We sat at an overpriced bistro, the kind that charges $25 for avocado toast.

“It’s in a prime location, a very posh neighborhood, with a huge lot,” Amanda said, scrolling through photos on her phone. “It was originally just a model house, but I wanted to add my personal touch, you know? So, I’m having them add a 1,000-square-foot terrace and a full commercial-grade counter in the kitchen.”

As Amanda cheerfully shared this, Rachel, playing her part perfectly, asked, “Wow, Amanda! That must be costing you an absolute fortune, right?”

Amanda beamed. “I was a bit shocked when I saw the estimate,” she said, feigning modesty. “But with Charles’s earnings, it was no problem at all. In fact,” she laughed, “it’s almost too cheap. Makes me nervous.”

She then turned that blinding smile on me. “Have you and Alex considered buying a house, Stella?”

I forced a smile. “Ah, no. We can’t afford such luxuries right now. The rental market is crazy enough.”

Amanda seemed genuinely pleased with herself, as if my answer had confirmed her superiority. She then started giving me unsolicited advice, pushing her brand bags on me.

“I’ll give you one of my old bags, Stella. You still haven’t used the one I gave you before, have you?” I recalled the “high-end” (and frankly, ugly) bag she’d given me last Christmas. It was not to my taste, and I hadn’t wanted to sell it, so it was stored in the back of my closet. “Are you intimidated because it’s a designer brand?” she continued. “Or does it just not match your… you know… cheap clothes? Ugh, I don’t have any low-end brands at my place. What a dilemma.”

While I just nodded and sipped my water, Amanda segued into her other favorite topic: how much she spends on herself. “This month alone, I’ve spent over $5,000 on beauty. Just maintenance, you know. I think I should save more, but once you start, you just want to do more and more!” She glanced at me and Rachel. “You know, people around here should really spend more on themselves. Don’t they realize they look like… well… elderly women?”

Spending on beauty varies for everyone, and with a kid in high school, it’s not a priority. But I couldn’t say that. If I did, she’d dismiss it as “the jealousy and bitterness of someone poor.” So, I just kept quiet, smiled, and let her talk, desperately hoping this agonizing lunch would end.

She kept us there until almost 4 PM. Finally, as we left, Amanda mentioned she would invite us over for a housewarming party once the new place was built. I wanted to decline, but I was exhausted. I just wanted to go home. So I accepted her “offer” and wrapped up the conversation.

THE PARTY AND THE DRESS CODE

A few months later, Amanda sent a group text about her new house. A photo was attached. It showed a sprawling lawn, a massive garden, new terrace seating, and even a fountain. Amanda was sitting on the terrace, waving at the camera, wearing a dress that I knew cost at least $2,000. On the table next to her, a box of macarons from an upscale Parisian confectionary was strategically placed, logo facing the camera.

Rachel, naturally, responded immediately. OMG, Amanda, it’s a PALACE! You look like a movie star! So stunning!

There’s something almost admirable about Rachel’s commitment to her role. I wish I could navigate these situations as skillfully, but I’m just not built that way. I was still pondering what polite, non-committal message to send back when my phone rang. Amanda. During my workday.

I let my colleagues know I had to step out. “Hey, did you see my new house?” she asked the moment I picked up.

“Amanda, I’m at work right now, I—”

“The housewarming is next Saturday,” she steamrolled. “It’s going to be like a standing party, in our large garden. I’ve invited a renowned three-star chef to cook at home all day. You’re coming, right?”

“Yes, Amanda, I plan to attend.”

“Okay, good. Just so you know, if you come in your usual… you know… poor-looking outfit, you might be embarrassed. I’m inviting other celebrities because of my connections. There’s a dress code, so make sure to follow it, okay? After all, your attending is… well, it makes me look good as your friend.”

I casually asked what the dress code was. She even specified a price range. “You might find it a bit expensive, but just… pick a stylish dress so you don’t embarrass yourself. Try to look like you belong.” With that, she just hung up. I sighed, returned to my desk, and got back to designing my next collection.

THE HOUSEWARMING

On the day of the party, I selected a new dress from my company’s upcoming line and brought a (very expensive) gift from a famous confectionary. Amanda greeted me at the door of her new mansion, sizing me up with an unusually graceful gesture. My dress was simple, elegant, and minimalist.

“Not bad,” she conceded, which from Amanda is a high compliment. Then she snatched the box of sweets I brought in a rough, dismissive manner. “Ugh, this place? I’m so over them.” She inspected the box, clearly unimpressed, but I managed to convey my congratulations and entered the house.

The party was already in full swing. Amanda immediately started making the rounds, introducing me to the “celebrities” (local news anchors and one guy from a reality show). But she didn’t introduce me as a friend. She used me as a foil.

“This is my mom friend, Stella,” she’d say, her voice dripping with condescension. “She’s from a very… ordinary family. Her husband’s just a regular office worker, and I think they both work, right?” she’d ask, looking at me. She mocked me with her sarcastic, pitying words. Meanwhile, I saw Rachel, who had also arrived, being used like a housekeeper, shuttling empty glasses to the kitchen. I felt uncomfortable. I came to celebrate, but I was already plotting my escape.

However, Amanda seemed to have guessed my intentions. She deliberately kept me close, her snide remarks a leash. Then, she suddenly looked at my back and burst out laughing. A loud, sharp laugh that made several people turn.

“What?” I asked, confused.

Amanda sneered and whispered, just loud enough for the group around us to hear, “You’ve got a price tag on. Oh, Stella. Poor thing.”

Shocked, I reached for the back of my neck. Sure enough, my fingers brushed against the small, cardboard tag from my company’s sample room. I must have forgotten to remove it in my rush.

“Did you… did you buy a dress just for today?” Amanda continued, her voice filled with mock pity. “But you should have removed the tag! Oh, no, were you in such a hurry? Are poor people always this busy?” She laughed.

I was mortified. My face flushed hot. I tried to dash to the restroom, but Amanda loudly ridiculed me, grabbing my arm. “Really, Stella? You’re so clueless! Hahaha! That kind of thing is only forgivable when you’re young. You’re over 30 now, shouldn’t you have some composure? Why not try to behave more like me?”

Everyone, including Rachel, turned to look at me.

“Listen, Rachel!” Amanda said, reveling in the attention. “She forgot to remove her price tag before coming here! She’s really unraveled, isn’t she?”

Rachel, on her part, exclaimed exaggeratedly, “Oh my god, really?” and recoiled. “Stella, you must have been so excited about today’s party to forget that! I’d be way too embarrassed to stay if it were me!” Rachel said this, laughing just like Amanda. Hearing her words, the “celebrities” around Amanda also laughed, those elegant, tinkling laughs that are all about social superiority.

Amanda was satisfied. She had embarrassed me, and she’d gotten the reaction she wanted. I wanted to leave immediately, to just dissolve, but that felt like admitting defeat. Hiding my panic, I turned my back to Rachel, who was still snickering.

“Excuse me, Rachel,” I said, my voice tight. “Could you help me with this?”

As I said this, Rachel sighed. “Ugh, can’t help it, can you?” She went to the kitchen to get scissors.

I said a quick, “Sorry,” and apologized to Amanda for the “scene.” Amanda, clearly disliking my lack of total breakdown, glared at me angrily. “Typical of the poor. Not even fazed by a little embarrassment, are you?” Amanda said this with a sneer.

“Yeah, well,” I replied. At that moment, an awkward silence fell. Rachel came back, scissors in hand, and moved behind me.

“I’ll snip it,” Rachel said. “Gosh, let me move your hair. It’s so… everywhere.”

Rachel carefully moved my hair to the side and pulled out the thick, cardboard sample tag.

Then she froze. Just stopped, scissors in mid-air, holding the tag.

Curious, Amanda asked, “What’s wrong? Did you cut her?” She leaned in to look. And she froze, too.

“What’s the matter?” one of the celebrity guests asked. The two of them looked genuinely, utterly shocked. Seeing their reaction, I felt a prickle of confusion. “Uh… what is it?”

Immediately after, Amanda yelled, her voice hysterical. “What does this mean?! This price! This… this isn’t a dress from a poor person!”

Amanda said this, pulling and yanking at the price tag still attached to my dress. I grimaced in pain as it tugged my hair and urged her to just cut it quickly. Following my words, Rachel finally snipped the tag. The two of them, Amanda and Rachel, just stared at the piece of cardboard in Rachel’s hand.

“$28,500?” Rachel whispered, reading the price out loud. The celebrity guests gasped.

“What… what brand is this?” Amanda stammered, her face pale.

I finally answered their questions. “This is a product of my company. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m a designer. This is our new flagship release for the upcoming season, and I wore it, partly for promotion. It’s a sample piece.” I took a breath and decided to stop hiding. “I… I had the privilege of handling the design myself. I’m the lead designer for the brand.”

Upon me saying this, everyone who had been hovering around Amanda turned their full attention to me. Questions flew.

“Which brand is this? The cut is incredible.”

“Is that hand-beading?”

“Stella… you’re the designer? I thought you worked in… you know…”

“An office,” I supplied. “I do.”

Suddenly, I was the center of attention, overshadowing Amanda in her own home, at her own party. This seemed to anger her more than anything else. As I was answering a question from a local fashion blogger about the fabric sourcing, Amanda, entering the crowd forcefully, “tripped” and deliberately dropped the full glass of champagne she was holding.

The red, bubbly liquid splashed all over the hem and front of my silk dress. A collective gasp.

“Oh my God! I’m SO sorry!” Amanda cried, her hand flying to her mouth in mock horror. “I just wanted a closer look at your dress and I tripped! Oh, Stella, it’s ruined!” She looked at me, a malicious, triumphant smile playing on her lips. She thought she had me.

“Since you wore this for promotion,” she said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy, “it’s not something you bought, right? Does this mean it has to be compensated to your company? Oh, this is terrible.” Backing her assumption, she added the final taunt. “Your earnings can’t cover this, can they? Don’t worry.” She turned to the crowd. “I’ll pay for it. I’ll just buy it off her, I guess. It’s the least I can do.” She laughed, imagining my frustration and humiliation.

I just looked at her in disbelief. Then I smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Amanda.”

“Huh?” Her voice rose in surprise. “Stop pretending, Stella. I know you can’t afford this. Buying this dress would take your entire year’s salary, right?”

“Amanda, really,” I reassured her again. “It’s fine. Because I did buy it myself.”

“But… but you said it was a sample… you said…”

“I earn quite well,” I said, finally letting the truth come out. “You know, I may not usually wear expensive clothes to our lunches, but as a lead designer, I often participate in events… like Paris Fashion Week. I was just there last month for preliminary showings.”

This comeback made Amanda’s face turn utterly pale. To add to her shock, I continued. “Didn’t you know? I was the one who set the ‘rose gold’ trend for this year’s celebrity fashion.”

“A… a joke, right?” Amanda stammered. “I’m… I’m well-versed in fashion. I read Vogue. I’ve… I’ve never seen your name.”

“Well, my name is quite common,” I said, pulling out my phone. “But my brand isn’t. Just search ‘Stella Co.’ on your mobile. You’ll find it. With photos.”

“Really?” Rachel, still beside Amanda, exclaimed. She hurriedly pulled out her own phone and started typing. I watched as Amanda’s face was struck with utter disbelief as Rachel showed her the screen. The onlookers, the real celebrities and fashion-conscious guests, whispered among themselves, “Wait, that Stella?” “Stella Co.?” “Is that… is that her?” Their astonishment was palpable.

“Unbelievable,” Amanda said, completely stunned.

Pushing past her, the guests now gathered around me. I was willing to answer all their questions, valuing the connections with these influential people. I was, after all, still promoting my brand. Amanda just stood there, pale and watching, completely forgotten. In the end, I enjoyed the party until the last. People surrounded me, and I heard many rare and interesting stories.

Seeing me have fun, Amanda looked resentful at first, but she was a performer. She quickly brightened up when others praised her for “knowing me” before I was famous. In the end, as usual, she jumped back into the center of attention, starting her own boasting session about her “dear, brilliant friend Stella,” acting as if she had been my champion all along.

UPDATE

A few days later, I saw Amanda walking down the street, looking completely downcast. This was unusual—normally, she used taxis or her luxury car. I was in my own car, but I pulled over. When I approached her, she looked mortified, but mentioned that her husband had found the party’s final bill. The three-star chef, the celebrities’ appearance fees (which she’d apparently paid for), the open bar with vintage champagne… it was astronomical. He had, in her words, “hit the roof.”

Even her daughter was exasperated with her. Amanda was temporarily—and completely—banned from all spending. If she didn’t comply, her husband threatened to make her pay the entire party bill herself. A challenging, if not impossible, situation for the non-working Amanda.

Hearing this, I was amazed at how much she must have spent, and dumbfounded by her audacity.

Following this, Amanda became… quiet. Subdued. She stopped hurling insults or taunts at me. The sudden, demanding calls during work also ceased. My life, blissfully, returned to peacefulness.

Olivia, doing well in high school, mentioned a few weeks ago that she’s thinking of going into fashion design. Hearing that filled me with a quiet joy. Pursuing a passion as a career can be tough, but the sense of achievement, of building something that is truly yours, is unparalleled. I hope Olivia experiences that, too.