Chapter 2I Fed the Elderly Cheap, They Turned Ferocious

I didn't lose my temper. looked at the calculating faces around the room before finally settling my gaze on Margaret.

"We've all been neighbors for decades. You know me. What do you think I opened this kitchen for? If the food isn't to your liking, you can tell us. If the soup is too hot, let it cool down."

I paused, glancing at the table Margaret had just deliberately spilled soup all over.

"But deliberately wasting perfectly good food? What's the point?" I asked. "You think you're making things difficult for me? You're making things difficult for the kitchen staff who get up early and work all day to prepare your meals. And you're wearing away the last bit of respect people still have for you."

Several of the seniors lowered their heads, clearly embarrassed. No one dared say a word.

But my heart grew colder.

They knew perfectly well how much time, effort, and money went into providing these meals, yet they still chose to follow Margaret's lead just to save a few dollars.

I didn't want to argue anymore. I turned and walked out of the dining room, pulled out my phone, and called Margaret's son, Liam Zimmerman. If she was determined to be difficult, I saw no reason to keep protecting her dignity.

The phone rang for quite some time, but no one answered.

"Very well," I thought.

I swallowed my anger and returned to the dining room, walking straight to Margaret's table.

She was sitting there with her legs crossed, casually eating a bag of potato chips she'd apparently brought from home. Crumbs were scattered all over the floor.

I stopped in front of her.

"Margaret, since you think the food here is too hot and tastes terrible, don't come back starting tomorrow," I said, my voice calm but loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "I'll have the front desk cancel your discount and refund whatever money you have left on your account."

That set her off. She shot to her feet, sending potato chip crumbs flying all over me.

"You can't do that! What gives you the right to kick me out?" she shouted. "This kitchen belongs to the community! It's here for everyone, not just for you to control! I can come and go whenever I want!"

She pointed at me, her expression turning openly hostile.

"Liam told me this is a public benefit. You're taking advantage of government funding and lining your own pockets! And you think you're the one who's right?

"What's wrong with eight dollars? Eight dollars is still money! Your food tastes terrible, and now you're not even letting people complain? You're not even letting us throw it out?"

Whatever respect I had left for her disappeared.

"Margaret, I've made myself clear," I snapped, looking at her coldly. "If you think the food here is terrible, then let's go our separate ways."

I turned toward the front desk, pulled up her account, and selected the option to cancel her membership and issue a full refund.

A moment later, the printer beeped and spat out a receipt.

I took the receipt and the little over two hundred dollars in cash I'd refunded and walked back over to her.

"Here's your money. Don't come back."

Margaret stared at the bills. Instead of taking them, she slapped them onto the floor.

"Who wants your filthy money?! You're insulting me! I'm going to report you to the community board! I'll make sure this lousy kitchen gets shut down!"

As she continued shouting, she shot a look at the other women behind her. They immediately caught on and joined in.

"Exactly! Mateo, you're going too far. How can you just throw someone out?"

"We're going to take this to the neighborhood association and see whether they think this is acceptable!"

Watching the scene unfold, I couldn't help but snicker inwardly.

I'd felt sorry for Margaret when she'd told me she was struggling to make ends meet and that Liam wouldn't support her. That's why I'd given her the discounted rate in the first place.

Now, I finally saw what she really was.

She wasn't struggling. She was simply taking advantage of people's kindness.

I ignored her. I bent down to pick up the money and slipped it into an envelope. Then, I pulled out my phone, taking pictures of the mess covering the table and floor.

"Go ahead and report me," I said. "I was planning to speak to Liam at this workplace anyway. I'd like to ask him how, as a bank loan manager driving a luxury car, he can let his own mother make a scene over an eight-dollar meal at a community kitchen and deliberately waste perfectly good food."