Not long ago, I went to the supermarket to buy a simple bun. My name is Margaret, but most people call me Maggie. Since my family abandoned me, small outings like this have become precious moments of joy and normalcy in my quiet life.
At the checkout counter, I realized with panic that I was two dollars short. I frantically searched my purse for coins, hoping to cover the cost. The cashier, clearly annoyed, snapped at me, “Hurry up, old lady. If you can’t afford it, don’t waste our time.” Her harsh words stung deeply, and I felt the eyes of other customers on me, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
Just as I was about to give up and leave, fate intervened. The cashier knocked over a stack of cans in her rush, causing them to crash loudly to the floor. She bent down to pick them up but slipped and fell, drawing the attention of everyone nearby.
As the crowd gathered to help her, a kind stranger named John approached me. He had witnessed everything and kindly offered to pay for my bun. His genuine warmth was a sharp contrast to the cashier’s rudeness, and I gratefully accepted.