Being a cashier means you deal with all sorts of people daily, including the selfish, self-entitled ones, like this one rich woman. After seeing her mistreating her maid in the store, I put aside my fears and stood up for a fellow working-class woman!

I’ve been a cashier at a supermarket for over eight years. It’s not glamorous, but it pays the rent and gives me a strange front-row seat to human behavior. After a while, you start to memorize the quirks and patterns of your regulars. But some people don’t just blend into the crowd; they leave an imprint.

One such person was Veronica.

Every Sunday, without fail, this rich woman would sweep into the store like she owned it! She wore oversized sunglasses and heels too loud for a grocery aisle. Always decked out in designer, always dragging behind her a frail woman who clearly wasn’t there by choice.

The maid’s name was Alma. I only found that out much later.

Veronica was in her early forties, the same age as Alma, though she acted like someone much younger, constantly tapping on her phone and talking to it like it owed her money. Alma, by contrast, was quiet, slight, and spoke in broken and halting English that gave away her origin.

It was clear that she came from a poorer background compared to her flamboyant boss.

At first, I thought it might be a language barrier, but over time, I learned that Veronica only hired people who didn’t speak much English so she could say whatever she wanted in front of them without consequences. She was strategic that way.

And cruel.

Every Sunday, she came with that same steel-tipped condescension. Alma would push the cart like it weighed five hundred pounds, always trailing two steps behind. Her boss would strut, point, and insult like she was hosting a pageant no one wanted to attend!

“Pick up the pace! I’m not growing roots here!” she said, barking orders while nitpicking everything.

“No, not that brand! Do you have any brain cells left?”

“If you can’t stack tomatoes without bruising them, what can you do? What do you expect me to do with this garbage? Feed it to you?!”

“Are you blind or just lazy?!”

I wanted to scream! But I needed the job.

The worst was watching Alma shrink under Veronica’s voice, trying to hold on to what little dignity she had! She wore the same faded sandals every week, the back strap held together by a safety pin. Her shirts were always a little too big, probably hand-me-downs.

Her hands trembled slightly every time she reached for produce, double-checking each tomato like it might get her punished! She reminded me of my mom, who once worked as a housekeeper, and that made my blood boil!

See, what some people don’t realize is that maids and housekeepers are very much underpaid! So I sympathize with them being forced to shop only at the places their employers take them to.

One day, after weeks of seeing the abuse Alma went through, I got the opportunity to try and bridge the gap.

As they approached my register, Alma broke off from Veronica and placed a few items on the belt. Rice. A bottle of cooking oil. A small bar of soap. Her eyes avoided mine.

“Do you have a membership?” I asked.

She looked puzzled, so I gently repeated it. Still nothing.

Veronica came up behind her, taking her sunglasses off while clapping her hands as if we were all toddlers in daycare.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “She doesn’t understand you. English isn’t her first language. Or second. Or third.”

I kept my smile professional. “I can help her sign up for our discount program. It takes two minutes. Or you could use your membership for her items?” Gently, I pushed a little further.

But Veronica laughed like I’d told a joke! “For her? No, for sure! She can pay full price like everyone else. I’m in a hurry.”

“But she could save quite a bit, and—”

“She’s not my child,” Veronica snapped. “Why on earth would I care?! She’s lucky I even let her shop while I’m here. Maybe she should get her act together and STOP BEING POOR! Maybe if she tried harder in life, she could afford her items and not need that stupid membership!”

“I’m not holding up my day for her rice and soap!” she added as an afterthought, looking to the side with arms crossed.

I was shocked! In that moment, I realized Veronica spoke to anyone she deemed “below her” the way she did to Alma.

The poor maid, obviously used to her boss’s harsh tongue, stood silently, clutching a few bills in her hand. It wasn’t much.

I bit my tongue, nodded, and rang up her items at full price.

Then came Veronica’s turn. Her cart was bursting with imported cheeses, premium cuts of meat, and organic everything! Easily over $700, I estimated her total in my mind.

“Okay,” she said, suddenly perking up while smoothing her silk blouse, “I’ll register now for the discount.”

I smiled. This was my chance!

I clicked a few buttons, then gave her my most sympathetic look.

“Oh… I’m sorry. Our registration system is temporarily offline. It’s a known system issue.”

“What?!” Her voice went up an octave.

“It should be back up later today if you want to return? Unfortunately, I can’t sign anyone up right now.”

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows furrowed. “That’s ridiculous. I shop here every week.”

I shrugged, giving faux sympathy. “It’s weird, right? Anyway, you didn’t want to wait earlier, remember?”

“This is unacceptable! Do you know how much I’m spending?!” she snapped.

“Roughly the cost of decency,” I muttered under my breath. I wasn’t proud of it. But I didn’t regret it either.

She huffed and tapped furiously on her phone. Probably texting her lawyer, or someone she thought would care. But no one showed up to save her from the indignity of paying full price.

I finished scanning her items and gave her the final total. Full price! No discount, just like Alma.

Veronica glared at me, and if looks could kill, I’d be dead! It was very clear that she wasn’t pleased with my behavior, but didn’t know what to do in that moment. At one point before paying, I saw her darting her eyes around, probably looking to catch the eye of someone sympathetic to her cause.

Or perhaps she was hoping to spot a manager. But today was my lucky day because Max was inundated with work in the back office and wouldn’t show his face at the tills until knock-off time.

The moment Veronica’s card beeped for the final payment, the mood in the store shifted. Customers behind her had been watching the scene unfold, the entitlement, the scolding, the snide comments. And now, as her total rang up without a single cent of discount, some couldn’t hold back.

“Guess the rules do apply to everyone,” muttered a teenager behind her, nudging his friend. They chuckled under their breath!

Another woman in yoga pants, arms crossed and eyes sharp, added, “Maybe next time she won’t act like she owns the place!”

A few chuckles turned into stifled laughs. A cashier two lanes down whispered something to a bagger, who burst out laughing so hard he had to turn away from the register!

Veronica’s nostrils flared.

She tried to maintain her cool, gathering her designer bags with stiff arms. But her face was flushed. The slight downturn of her mouth and twitch in her cheek told me she’d heard the whispers. And for someone like Veronica, ridicule was worse than any fine!

As she walked past the self-checkout area, she paused. Her eyes locked on a man in a navy blazer, mid-forties, who happened to be straightening his receipt near the help kiosk. He looked well-dressed, tidy, probably some office guy on his lunch break.

“Excuse me!” Veronica snapped, flagging him down like she’d found her savior. “You manage this store, don’t you?”

The man blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You need to hear what just happened at register four.” She pointed in my direction like I’d robbed her.

He raised an eyebrow. “I think you’ve got the wrong—”

She plowed ahead anyway. “Your cashier refused to register me! Absolutely refused! I spend a fortune here. I should be getting preferred treatment, not this public humiliation. Plus, I don’t understand why no one has ever told me about these discounts!”

“Ma’am, I—”

“She was disrespectful, sarcastic, completely out of line,” she said, lifting her chin. “She even mocked me about the price! I demand you speak to her! Fire her if you must!”

The man looked utterly baffled.

“I’m not a manager,” he said, holding up his receipt. “I’m just buying frozen waffles and almond milk.”

For a moment, Veronica froze. The flush on her cheeks deepened into a bright crimson.

“Oh,” she said stiffly.

A chorus of snickers followed her as she turned on her heel and stormed toward the exit, Alma trailing behind her with heavy bags in both hands. After her boss exited the store, Alma paused a bit and turned to me.

Her lips parted slightly. No voice came out, just a soft motion: “Thank you.”

I didn’t hear about the scene that happened around the self-checkout area until later.

Carlos, the packer who often helped on Sundays, leaned in as he stacked some paper towels.

“You know Veronica thought that guy was the manager, right?” he said, smirking.

He filled me in about Veronica’s hilarious antics and her effort to get me fired!

I laughed until tears fell! “How do you know all this?!”

Carlos grinned. “Alma told me. I understand her. Spanish is my first language.”

That made my smile grow even wider. Carlos was the one who told me their names and more about Veronica. And now, he’d given me something even better, proof that sometimes, doing the right thing pays!

In the following story, a woman was treated like a personal maid by her pregnant sister-in-law in her parents’ home. When she realized no one would save her, the woman finally took matters into her hands, teaching everyone in the house a valuable life lesson.