I fed it into the juicer. The machine sputtered, spraying juice—right onto Miss Pompous’s expensive designer bag. Her screech echoed through the store. “My purse!”Feigning innocence, I apologized while hiding my satisfaction. The next day, she stormed in,

demanding my firing and compensation. But when the owner checked the security footage, he saw everything—including her assault on me.His verdict? “Ma’am, we reserve the right to refuse service to anyone who mistreats our staff.”Justice was served—with a splash of carrot juice. And as I recounted the story to my family that night, I realized something: standing up for myself wasn’t just about getting back at her—it was about knowing my worth.