She came to the counter for her bridal bouquet.
Things were everywhere and cluttered.
Her flowers were on the counter.
I ring her up.

“Can I get a bag?” she says.
She leaves.
She doesn’t say thank you or goodbye,
which I thought was strange.
Just another crazy momzilla, I thought.
Turns out I was right.

My next shift, I get called into a quiet room with my manager.
I sit in a swivel chair, sitting up straight,
trying to look “professional”—
whatever that means when you’re sixteen.

“There’s been a complaint,” she says.
My heart drops straight to the floor.

Her paper reads:

Attitude Complaint.

I have an attitude?

“We use vases, not sleeves,” she says.
I didn’t know that.
How was I supposed to know that?

I don’t even remember her.
She seemed normal.

“It’s been a lot,” I say.
“That’s what I was going to ask you,” she replies.

Why am I here?
I come here to escape.
I come here to make money.
Not cry.

“Is everything okay at home?”
“Are you seeing a therapist?”

What do I even say to something like that?

“Yes.”

And now here I am.
In a back room.
A basket case.
Crying uncontrollably.
Because one customer decided
I wasn’t good enough.

Now here we are.
She’s reading off a three-page list
about taking orders,
doing things
the right way—
her way.

“Be descriptive.”
“Be more positive.”
“Represent the floral department.”
“Treat them with care—not knowing who they’re grieving,
or what they’re going through.”

I’m going through something too.

What if in that single moment,
I didn’t want to talk to a customer
like they were a God-sent angel from the heavens?

Am I not the sweet girl people say I am?
Were they lying?

Why does this happen to me?

That customer didn’t know—
My dad is in rehab for alcohol addiction.
I haven’t heard from my friends in months.
I hate the way I look.
I feel like I’m not enough for anyone.
I feel fat.
I compare myself to everyone.
And I didn’t want to talk to her either.

But the complaint?
I didn’t smile.
And I put her ******* bouquets
in sleeves
and paper bags.

That’s it.

That was enough to ruin my career in this store.
The one I started the second I turned sixteen.
The one I started because I loved flowers.
The one I went to—to get away.
To distract myself.

But every day,
I’m expected to smile.
To serve.
To fold.

Everyone’s grieving something.
But let’s be honest
I’m not sorry.