A Rich Customer Mocked Me, Calling Me a ‘Poor Cashier’ – But Karma Came for Her Moments Later

It’s the kind of place where the air smells like dish soap and bananas, and where the fluorescent lights buzz just a little too loud.

It’s not exactly a glamorous job, but it pays the gas bill, and it keeps the fridge stocked for my daughter, Melanie, and her three kids. Her husband, my son-in-law, Leo, died two years ago.

It was a freak accident and a phone call that we’ll never forget.

Melanie does everything she can to keep her little family stitched together. She works from home, balancing clients and casseroles, and I do my part by keeping the register warm and flowing.

I take the early shifts, the late ones, the back-to-backs that would floor someone half my age. Most mornings, I’m up before dawn, slipping sandwiches into paper bags, brushing hair off sleepy foreheads, and catching the bus with people too tired to make conversation.

I don’t complain.

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