When I was about to end my shift at our family’s pizzeria, a woman in a fancy coat burst through the door, brandishing a pizza box like contraband. She slammed the door so hard the windows rattled and glared at my grandmother, who was quietly running the cash register. Her eyes burned with fury, her voice practically a thunderclap. “Is there a manager here?” she demanded.

Everyone in the shop went silent, tension coiled in the air like a poised spring. Grandma, who had weathered every storm during her decades in the business, merely inclined her head. The woman launched into a tirade: we’d “messed up” her order, and she swore she’d never eat here again, threatening to ruin our reputation around town.

“Ma’am,” I tried, stepping forward. But she whipped around, eyes ablaze. “You’re just standing there? This place is a disaster! I want someone who knows what they’re doing!”

Before I could respond, Grandma placed a gentle hand on my arm. Her voice, when she spoke, was as steady as ever. “You seem very upset. But I believe there’s been a mistake.”

The woman’s face twisted. “Mistake? The only mistake is coming here! My order is ruined, and you people don’t care!”