A woman walked into my upscale Portland bistro and demanded I change my hairstyle and uniform because she didn’t want me “distracting” her fiancé. Little did she know, I owned the place.

I run a farm-to-table bistro with a two-week waitlist on weekends, and I love every part of it. I’m hands-on—greeting guests, managing reservations, and jumping in when needed.A few months ago, my brother Mike, who lives out of state, called to say he had proposed to his girlfriend and wanted us to meet over dinner at my restaurant. I was excited—until she walked in.

She was a tall, blonde woman in a red designer dress, and as soon as I greeted her, she scrutinized my outfit—a black blouse and slacks with my hair in a bun. “You’re overdressed for a waitress,” she said, adding that she didn’t want me near her table. “Could you get someone else to serve us? Image matters.”I kept my cool and said, “Let me grab the manager for you.” I then went to my office, grabbed my business card, and returned to her table.

“Hi again. Is everything okay?” I asked sweetly, placing my card in front of her. “I am the manager. Also, I own this place.”She froze. Just as Mike walked in, she realized who I was.Wait, you’re his sister?” she stammered.“Yeah. Jill, the owner.” I crossed my arms as Mike introduced us, and Ashley turned pale. She admitted she thought I was just a waitress and apologized, explaining her past trauma with a cheating ex. While I understood her pain, I reminded her that trauma doesn’t excuse poor behavior.Mike wasn’t impressed, and I made it clear that while I’d be civil for my brother’s sake, respect is earned—not demanded.