Chapter 2Years of Kindness Repaid with Insults, Now I’m Destroying the Maynards

Patricia’s voice echoed across the office, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. People started gathering, curious about the commotion. Even Greg Mitchell, my team leader, rushed over.

Seeing her rage, he tried to calm her down before even asking me for the full story.

“Jules,” Greg said, turning to me, “just give her the money, and let’s move on. She’s an elderly lady—it’s not easy for her to come all the way here. Let’s not cause a scene or hurt the company’s image.”

I bit back my anger, knowing he had a point. This was about a dollar. Not worth escalating. Besides, I had a major client meeting in thirty minutes and couldn’t waste energy arguing with her.

“Fine,” I said coldly.

Turning to Patricia, I spoke deliberately. “Mrs. Maynard, I was in a hurry this morning, and I didn’t realize you’d charged me for 56.90 instead of the 30 sandwich I asked for. That was already more than I intended. And I didn’t know the extra bags cost money. That’s on me. My apologies. Give me your payment code, and I’ll pay you right now.”

The murmurs around the office showed my colleagues understood the situation now. Many of them shot me sympathetic glances.

Patricia, however, glared at me like I was the devil incarnate. “Well, at least you’ve got some decency,” she spat. “But next time, if you don’t pay for the bags, don’t bother coming to Maynard’s. We don’t serve people with no class.”

I nearly exploded but forced myself to hold back. I opened Venmo, sent her $1, and stepped back.

The app chimed, “Payment received: $1.”

I thought that would end things, but Patricia wasn’t done. She pointed a finger at me, her nose in the air.

“One dollar? That’s it? Who knows how many bags you’ve swiped before today? I’m asking for $50, at least. You’re rich, right? Don’t act like you can’t afford it.”

Seething, I asked through gritted teeth, “How much do you want?”

“$50,” she snapped, her tone dripping with entitlement.

Knowing I couldn’t waste more time, I transferred the $50 to make her leave.

She smirked as the transaction went through. “You’ve got the money, so why not give it to me? Better me than someone else, right?” With that, she left, grinning ear to ear.

As I watched her walk away, I clenched my fists. Fifty dollars for two plastic bags? Seriously?

I’d let this slide for months—letting her overcharge me for leftovers, thinking it was charity. Dad even wanted to raise their rent, but I told him to hold off. “They’re struggling,” I’d said. “The food’s good. Don’t push them too hard.”

And this is how they repay me?

Sometimes, being nice just makes you a target.

Some people think kindness is weakness. Some horses, when gentle, are ridden rough.

Watching Patricia Maynard’s retreating back, I raised an eyebrow.

She had no idea who she’d just picked a fight with.

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