Page 1 of Mean Moms
Every wealthy mom in New York City, from uptown Manhattan to down, from Brooklyn Heights to Cobble Hill to Park Slope, had heard about what happened at Atherton Academy.
They’d read the panicked WhatsApp missives from the safety of their penthouses and town homes, huddled under cashmere blankets, clutching glasses of cabernet.
An incident at Atherton’s annual benefit, something terrible, beyond words.
Someone was behind it all, but no one knew who.
Accusations were flying. A mom. It was definitely a mom.
A real psycho. A possible murderer in their midst, wearing the same designers that they did, getting a blowout at their same salon, possibly even sharing the same dermatologist.
Maybe it was the selfless mom, the one who always volunteered, who collected money for gifts, who chaperoned the school trips.
Maybe it was the popular mom, the one everyone worshipped, the prettiest and richest and coolest.
Maybe it was the working mom, the one who missed the parent get-togethers, who rarely came to pickup, who was always racing off to a Zoom.
Maybe it was the flirty mom, the one who leaned into the dads at cocktail parties, who showed too much cleavage, who made eyes at the hot male teachers.
Maybe it was the messy mom, the one who arrived ten minutes late, who forgot to buy school supplies, who never read the important emails.
Maybe it was the sporty mom, the one whose kids played lacrosse, hockey, and football, who had coaches on speed-dial, who wore her tennis outfit all day long.
Maybe it was the know-it-all mom, the one who spewed the latest parenting research, who knew exactly what the surgeon general recommended, who could cite stats about the dangers of screen time.
Maybe it was the anxious mom, the one who still cut her middle schooler’s grapes, who’d tracked her children since pre-K.
Maybe it was, maybe it was, maybe it was.
A sociopath standing alongside them at pickup, listening in as they chatted about weekend plans and moms’ nights out. One of their own. But who could it be?