I’ve been working as a cashier at a supermarket for over eight years. It’s not a fancy job, but it pays my rent and gives me a front-row seat to all kinds of people. Some are kind. Some are odd. And then… there are people like her.
Her name was Veronica.
Every Sunday, like clockwork, Veronica stormed into the store like she was on a runway. Oversized sunglasses, expensive clothes, and heels that clacked across the floor like she wanted everyone to notice her. Behind her, always a step or two behind, was a woman who looked tired and worn out. That was Alma. I didn’t know her name at first, but I never forgot her face.
Veronica was maybe in her early forties. Alma looked about the same age, but their lives couldn’t have been more different. While Veronica was loud and always on her phone, Alma was quiet and moved slowly, like her feet hurt. She wore the same faded sandals every week, the strap in the back held together by a safety pin. Her shirts hung off her shoulders like they didn’t belong to her. Her hands shook a little every time she picked something up.
Watching her reminded me of my mom. My mom used to be a housekeeper too. Seeing Alma getting treated badly brought back all the memories, and honestly, it made me angry.
Veronica treated her like a servant, not a human being. Every Sunday, I’d hear her voice echoing through the aisles:
“Pick up the pace! I’m not growing roots here!”
“No, not that brand! Do you even think before you do anything?”
“Are you blind or just lazy?!”
Alma never said a word. She just pushed the cart, nodded, and tried not to mess anything up. You could tell she didn’t want to be there, but she had no choice.
Eventually, I figured out Veronica hired people like Alma on purpose—women who didn’t speak much English, so she could insult them without worrying they’d talk back or report her. That’s not just mean. That’s calculated cruelty.
Still, I stayed quiet. I needed my job. But every week, it got harder to keep my mouth shut.
One Sunday, something different happened. Veronica was doing her usual act, barking orders while Alma followed, when they came to my register. Alma separated a few small items from the big grocery cart: a small bag of rice, a bottle of oil, and a bar of soap. Just three things. Essentials. Nothing fancy.
“Do you have a membership?” I asked her.
She looked confused.
So I asked again, softer. Still nothing.
That’s when Veronica marched up, clapping her hands like we were all her assistants.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she groaned. “She doesn’t understand you. English isn’t her first language. Or second. Or third.”
I smiled, but inside, I was boiling. “I can help her sign up for our discount card. It only takes a minute. Or if you’d like, you could use your membership for her things?”
Veronica actually laughed. “For her? Absolutely not. She can pay full price like everyone else. I’m in a hurry.”
“But she could save a few dollars—”
Veronica snapped, “She’s not my child! Why would I care?! She’s lucky I even let her shop while I’m here. Maybe she should try harder and stop being poor!”
Then she added, “I’m not wasting my day on her rice and soap!”
I stood there, shocked. Alma kept her eyes down, holding a few small bills in her hand like they were all she had.
So I nodded, bit my tongue, and rang up Alma’s items at full price. She paid quietly, not making a sound.
Then it was Veronica’s turn. Her cart was overflowing—imported cheese, organic fruits, fancy meats, you name it. Easily over $700.
As she pulled out her card, she suddenly said with a sweet voice, “Okay, I’ll register now for the discount.”
I clicked a few buttons and gave her a soft, polite smile.
“Oh… I’m sorry,” I said. “Our registration system is currently down. It should be back later today.”
Her face twisted. “What?! That’s ridiculous. I shop here every week!”
I shrugged. “It’s unfortunate. But you didn’t want to wait earlier… remember?”
She huffed. “Do you have any idea how much I’m spending?!”
I couldn’t help it. I mumbled under my breath, “Roughly the cost of decency.”
Her jaw dropped slightly, but she didn’t say anything right away. She scanned the store like she was searching for someone to come save her. Maybe a manager. Maybe someone to back her up. But no one came.
Luckily, our manager Max was slammed with paperwork in the back office and wouldn’t come out until the end of the shift. So I rang up every item—no discounts, no coupons.
And guess what? People in line had been watching everything.
A teenage boy behind her muttered to his friend, “Guess the rules apply to everyone, huh?” They both laughed.
Another woman nearby crossed her arms and said loudly, “Maybe next time she won’t act like she owns the place.”
You could feel the shift in energy. Even one of the other cashiers laughed so hard she had to turn away from her lane.
Veronica looked like she was going to explode. Her cheeks turned bright red as she yanked her fancy bags off the counter.
On her way out, she spotted a man near the self-checkout area. He was wearing a navy blazer and holding a receipt. Just some regular guy. But Veronica saw him and lit up like Christmas.
“Excuse me!” she snapped, waving at him. “You’re the manager here, right?”
The man blinked. “Me?”
“Yes, you! You need to hear what just happened at register four,” she said, pointing at me. “Your cashier refused to register me. She was sarcastic, rude, completely out of line! I spend a fortune here and deserve better treatment. She even mocked me about the price!”
The man looked totally lost. He held up his receipt. “Ma’am… I’m not a manager. I’m just here to buy waffles and almond milk.”
Veronica froze. For the first time, she didn’t have anything to say. Her mouth opened, then closed again.
“Oh,” she finally muttered.
Laughter bubbled up from behind her. People were clearly enjoying the show now.
She stormed toward the exit with Alma right behind her, carrying all the heavy bags. Just before they left, Alma paused. She turned around, looked straight at me, and silently mouthed, “Thank you.”
It was just a small moment. But I felt it in my chest.
Later that day, Carlos, one of our packers, came up while stacking shelves.
“You know Veronica thought that guy was the manager, right?” he whispered with a grin.
I laughed. “How do you know?!”
“Alma told me,” he said proudly. “She speaks Spanish. So do I.”
That made me smile even more. Carlos was the one who first told me their names, and now he’d given me something even better—a story that reminded me sometimes, standing up is worth it.
No matter how loud the heels or expensive the purse, kindness—and courage—speak louder.
