When I was 25, my mom, Cathy — the “Cookie Lady” at Beller’s Bakery — was fired for giving a homeless veteran leftover bread and muffins. The new manager, Derek, called it “theft” and sent her home in tears. I never forgot how her hands shook as she folded away her sunflower apron for the last time.

Ten years later, I ran my own food-tech company that donates unsold food to shelters. While hiring for an operations manager, I spotted Derek’s application. He didn’t recognize me during the interview and even bragged about firing “an older woman” for breaking policy. I told him that woman was my mother.

His smirk vanished. I told him there was no job for him — but the shelter down the street might be hiring. Watching him leave, I didn’t feel triumph or anger, just closure. A weight I’d carried for a decade finally lifted.

Today, Mom works for my company as head of community outreach, giving food away with the same warm smile. She never needed revenge — just peace. And maybe that’s what karma really is: the long game of doing the right thing until the world catches up.