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.”