After a twelve-hour hospital shift, I dragged myself into the grocery store near my apartment — still in my scrubs, hair in a braid, sneakers squeaking with every tired step. I wasn’t looking for anything special, just something quick to eat and a moment of peace where no one needed me.
The place was nearly empty. The soft buzz of fluorescent lights filled the silence. I was halfway through tossing rice and chicken into my cart when I heard a splash — followed by a sharp, mocking laugh.
Curiosity pulled me toward the sound. Around the corner, I saw it: an older janitor, Ruth, gripping a mop with shaky hands beside a puddle of spilled coffee. Across from her stood a tall woman in an expensive black coat, a designer bag swinging from her arm.
“You should really watch where you’re going,” the woman snapped, glaring at Ruth as if she’d committed a crime.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” Ruth stammered, her voice trembling. But before she could finish, the woman kicked the mop bucket, sending dirty water sloshing across the floor.
I froze. The humiliation on Ruth’s face hit me like a punch. My exhaustion vanished, replaced by a quiet fire. I left my cart and stepped forward.
“Hey,” I said, steady but firm. “That was completely uncalled for.”
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