I Defended a Cashier from an Entitled Customer – Days Later, Her Colleague Brought Me to Tears

It was a Thursday night, almost midnight, and my apartment was finally quiet.

My kids were asleep, starfished across my bed like they paid rent, and I realized we were out of bread, fruit, and anything resembling a decent lunchbox snack.

So I grabbed my bag, slid on my beat-up sneakers, and drove to my supermarket, the one constant in my chaotic little life.

Inside, the lights were harsh and buzzing, the music soft and weirdly upbeat for midnight.

There were maybe three other shoppers wandering around in that half-dazed, late-night way.

I did my usual route—bread, fruit, milk, cereal, something salty I’d regret later—and headed to the self-checkout.

I scanned everything, bagged it, and then reached into my purse for my wallet.

My hand met keys, an old crumpled receipt, a half-melted crayon…no wallet.

That cold, sinking feeling hit me.

I checked again, like maybe it would magically appear if I looked hard enough.

It didn’t.

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