Years ago, I was working at a coffee shop while juggling full-time university classes. One afternoon, I was chatting with a customer who seemed genuinely excited—she’d just gotten a promotion and bought a new car. I congratulated her, asked if she liked her new role, just trying to make small talk. But something shifted. Her tone turned smug, and she started bragging about her salary, benefits, and how she was finally “above” jobs like mine. I kept smiling, nodding, throwing in polite “wow”s, wondering what I’d said to deserve the sudden condescension.
As she grabbed her drink, she delivered one final jab: “Maybe you’ll have what I have one day—once you get a real job.” That one stung. I was working nearly 40 hours a week and studying full-time, barely sleeping, barely surviving. But I smiled, thanked her again, and wished her a great day. My SSV caught the whole exchange and gave me a look that said, “You handled that better than I would’ve.” I felt small, but I didn’t let it show. I just wanted her gone.
She strutted out toward her shiny new car, keys swinging, confidence radiating. And then—like a scene from a movie—a gust of wind lifted one of our patio umbrellas right out of its stand. It sailed across the lot and scraped down the hood of her car with a screech. Both front quarter panels and the hood were scratched. She froze. My SSV and I ducked behind the counter, biting our lips, trying not to laugh. It was too perfect. Too poetic. The timing was unreal.
She stormed back in, demanding to know who was responsible. We apologized, offered a damage report, and kept our faces neutral. But inside, I was glowing. Not because I wanted her car damaged, but because the universe had delivered a moment of balance. I didn’t need to say anything. The wind had spoken for me. It was the kind of justice you don’t plan, but you never forget. I went home that night feeling lighter than I had in weeks.
I’ve thought about her often. Not with bitterness, but with curiosity. Did she ever reflect on that moment? Did she realize how cruel she’d been to someone just trying to make it through the day? Maybe not. But I did. I realized that dignity isn’t about titles or salaries—it’s about how you treat people. And sometimes, the world has a way of reminding us of that. Loudly. With metal and wind and a scratched-up hood.
Thirteen years from now, I’ll still remember that day. Not because of the insult, but because of the lesson. I didn’t need revenge. I didn’t need to clap back. I just needed to keep showing up, doing my best, and trusting that the universe sees everything—even the quiet moments behind the counter. And sometimes, it sends an umbrella to speak on your behalf.
