The grocery store where I worked was small, nothing fancy, but it had its rhythm. I knew the regulars, like Mrs. Johnson with her weekly bouquet, and Mr. Simmons, who stacked his groceries like Jenga. That day felt like any other—until the front doors slammed open and trouble walked in. A woman with wild hair, a sharp voice, and a little boy in tow marched straight to my register.

She launched into a tirade about organic apples—furious we only had one bag instead of two. I tried explaining the shortage, but she wouldn’t hear it. She barked louder, threatened my job, and humiliated me in front of everyone. Her son clung to her, eyes wide, whispering, “It’s okay, Mom. We don’t need apples.”

Then, karma struck. As she spun to storm out, the malfunctioning automatic doors didn’t open. She slammed into the glass with a thud that made the whole store pause. Red-faced, she stood frozen—until her son tugged her sleeve and said quietly, “You were mean to that cashier. You should say sorry.” The crowd held its breath.

But she didn’t apologize. Pride won. She muttered something bitter, grabbed his hand, and left. I just stood there, wondering if she’d change—but more than that, I hoped her son wouldn’t forget. Because in a room full of silent adults, he was the only one brave enough to speak the truth.