That morning, I stepped into the health food store, greeted by the familiar smells of fresh fruits and herbal teas. It was just another day at work, or so I thought. As I tied my apron, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

“Hey, Grace! Ready for another thrilling day of making juice?” Ally, my coworker, teased from behind the counter.

I laughed, shaking my head. “Yeah, you know it. Gotta keep those entitled customers happy, right?”

But there was a knot in my stomach. I had a hunch why. There was one customer who always made our lives miserable when she came in.

We called her “Miss Pompous,” and the name fit perfectly. She walked in like she owned the place, treating us like we were there just to serve her every whim.

I tried to push her out of my mind as I started my shift. I needed this job. It wasn’t just about me—it was about my family. My mom’s medical bills were piling up, and my little sister was counting on me to help with her college expenses. I couldn’t quit.

A few minutes later, Ally leaned in closer. “Heads up,” she whispered. “Miss Pompous just pulled into the parking lot.”

My stomach dropped. “Perfect,” I muttered under my breath. “Just what I needed.”

The bell above the door jingled, and in she walked. Her designer heels clicked against the floor like a countdown to trouble. She didn’t even look at me as she strutted to the counter, barking her order.

“Carrot juice. Now.”

I forced a smile. “Of course, ma’am. Coming right up.”

As I made the juice, I could feel her staring at me, watching every little thing I did. My hands started shaking under the pressure, but I finally handed her the drink.

She took one sip and immediately scowled. “What is this watered-down trash?” she shrieked. Before I could even respond, she threw the entire drink in my face.

Cold juice splattered across my cheeks and dripped down my chin. I stood frozen, humiliated, while she continued to yell. “Are you trying to poison me?”

I wiped the juice from my eyes, struggling to find words. “It’s the same recipe we always use…”

“Do it again,” she snapped. “And this time, try using your brain.”

My face burned with embarrassment as everyone in the store stared. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I fought them back. I wasn’t about to let her see me cry.

Just then, my manager, Mr. Weatherbee, walked over. “Is there a problem here?” he asked, though I could tell he was more concerned about the angry customer than me.

Miss Pompous turned to him. “Your employee can’t even make a simple juice! I demand a refund and a replacement.”

To my disbelief, Mr. Weatherbee started apologizing right away. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. We’ll remake your juice and refund your money immediately.” Then he turned to me. “Grace, be more careful next time.”

My jaw dropped. “But sir, I—”

“Just get the carrots, Grace,” he cut me off, “and make it again.”

Miss Pompous smirked at me, clearly enjoying every second of my humiliation. For a brief moment, I wanted to rip off my apron and walk out. But then I thought of my mom and sister. I couldn’t afford to lose this job.

So, I took a deep breath and made a decision. I wasn’t going to let her win.

I met her gaze, determined not to be intimidated. She thought her money and attitude gave her power to treat people like dirt. Not this time.

After Mr. Weatherbee walked away, I went to the fridge, but instead of grabbing the usual carrots, I picked the biggest, ugliest one I could find. It was tough and unwieldy—perfect for what I had in mind.

“Just a moment,” I said sweetly, feeding the oversized carrot into the juicer. The machine groaned loudly before spraying juice all over the counter, floor, and—most importantly—onto Miss Pompous’s expensive designer handbag.

She shrieked in horror, snatching up her purse and frantically trying to wipe off the bright orange stains. “My bag! You stupid girl! Look what you’ve done!”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I said, fighting to keep a straight face. “It was an accident, I swear.”

Her face turned beet red with fury. “You ruined my three-thousand-dollar purse! I want your manager!”

Barely holding back laughter, I gestured vaguely toward the store. “I think he’s helping a customer over there.”

As she stormed off to find Mr. Weatherbee, I ducked into the stockroom, grinning from ear to ear. From my hiding spot, I watched as she marched out of the store, clutching her dripping purse, leaving a trail of carrot juice behind her.

I thought that was the end of it, but Miss Pompous wasn’t one to let things go.

Sure enough, the next morning, she barged into the store, demanding to speak to the owner. Mr. Larson, the kind old man who owned the place, came out to hear her complaints. She launched into a tirade, insisting I be fired and demanding compensation for her ruined bag.

Calmly, Mr. Larson said, “Let’s check the security footage.”

My heart stopped. I had completely forgotten about the cameras.

We gathered around the monitor and watched the footage. It showed Miss Pompous throwing juice in my face, followed by the “accident” with her purse. The room was dead silent.

Mr. Larson turned to her, his voice calm but firm. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you any compensation. What I see here is an assault on my employee. If anyone should be considering legal action, it’s us.”

Miss Pompous stammered, “But… my purse!”

“I suggest you leave,” Mr. Larson said sternly. “And don’t come back.”

She gave one last glare before stomping out the door.

Once she was gone, Mr. Larson turned to me with a twinkle in his eye. “That was just an accident, right, Grace?”

“Of course, sir,” I said with a grin. “Why would I ever want to ruin a customer’s belongings?”

He chuckled and walked away. Ally came up and gave me a high five. “You really showed her, Grace! You stood up for yourself!”

That evening, as I told the story to my mom and sister, I realized something important. Standing up for myself hadn’t just put Miss Pompous in her place—it reminded me of my own worth.