I felt a hot burning in my chest, the one that shows up whenever someone talks to a service worker like they’re furniture.
I left my cart in the middle of the aisle and walked over before I could talk myself out of it.
“Hey,” I said, loud enough to cut into his rant. “You need to calm down.”
He turned on me like I’d just slapped him.
“Mind your business,” he snapped. “She screwed up.
I’m not paying extra because she can’t read.”
“She explained the sale,” I said. “You misread the sign. That doesn’t make her your punching bag.”
Jenna whispered, “It’s okay, really,” but her eyes were shiny, like she was used to swallowing this kind of thing.
A security guard started heading our way; another employee paused at the end of the aisle, watching.
The guy muttered something about “dramatic women” and “kids these days,” but when the guard calmly asked him to lower his voice or leave, he chose to storm out.
We all watched the automatic doors close behind him like they were sealing a villain out of a movie.
Jenna let out a breath that sounded painful.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Most people just…watch.”
I shrugged it off, made some joke about “buy one can, get a meltdown free,” and eventually finished my shopping like my heart hadn’t been punching my ribs the whole time.
I went home, put the groceries away, kissed my kids goodnight again, and thought that was the end of it.
Fast-forward a few weeks.
It was a Thursday night, almost midnight, and my apartment was finally quiet.
My kids were asleep, starfished across my bed like they paid rent, and I realized we were out of bread, fruit, and anything resembling a decent lunchbox snack.
