My day was already bad before I walked into the bakery. It was one of those days where everything felt sticky and slow, and the pain in my left foot was acting up again. The doctor told me it was something called plantar fasciitis, which is just a fancy way of saying that standing or walking for too long feels like stepping on a sharp rock over and over. All I wanted was a loaf of that good sourdough bread they make and to go home and put my foot up.
The line was long, which I expected. This place is popular. It snaked from the counter almost to the door. I sighed and got in line, shifting my weight to my good foot and trying to think about other things. The smell of sugar and baking bread was nice, at least. I watched the people ahead of me, a young couple holding hands, an older lady looking at the cakes. It was a normal, quiet line. People were on their phones or just waiting patiently. We were all in this together, just waiting our turn. It felt okay.
I had been waiting for about fifteen minutes and was finally third from the front when she came in. She was a woman who looked like she had her whole life perfectly organized. Her hair was nice, her clothes were clean and expensive-looking, and she was holding the hands of two little kids, a boy and a girl. They looked tired and fidgety. I felt a little bad for them, because I know what it’s like to have to drag kids on errands.
Instead of going to the back of the line like everyone else, she walked right up to the front, positioning herself near the counter like she was just looking at the pastries. But she wasn’t just looking. When the person at the front finished paying, she stepped right up to the counter, pulling her kids with her.
I felt a hot flash of annoyance. The woman who was now at the front of the line, who had been patiently waiting behind the person who just left, just sort of froze. She looked at the woman, then back at the rest of us, with a confused look on her face. No one said anything for a second. The cashier, a teenager who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, just stared at the woman.
I couldn’t help it. My foot was throbbing and my patience was gone. I cleared my throat and said, maybe a little louder than I meant to, that the line started at the back. I pointed toward the door with my thumb.
The woman turned to me. She didn’t look angry. She looked at me with a kind of calm disappointment, like I was a child who had just said something silly. She explained that her children hadn’t eaten a proper lunch and they were getting very fussy. She said she could see that I was an adult, by myself, and that surely I could understand that a mother’s duty is to her hungry children. Her voice was smooth and even. She spoke so clearly and with such big words that it made my own thoughts feel jumbled and messy. She made it sound like I was the selfish one for wanting her to follow the rules.
I felt my face get red. I told her that we had all been waiting, and that my foot was really hurting and I just wanted to get my bread and go home. I said we all have things to do and places to be.
That’s when the random thing happened. An older man, a few spots behind me in line, spoke up. He said, oh, let her go ahead, son. He was talking to me. He said, she has little ones, show some compassion. It’s just a loaf of bread. Suddenly, it wasn’t just me against her. It was me against this man, too, who was now looking at me like I was a monster for not wanting to let a mother feed her supposedly starving children. I felt so alone. The woman in front of me, who should have been the next to order, just looked down at her shoes, not wanting to be in the middle of it.
The mother gave the man a grateful, tight-lipped smile. Then she turned her back to me completely, as if I no longer existed, and began to order. And it wasn’t a quick order. She asked her son what kind of cookie he wanted. He pointed to one, then changed his mind. Then the daughter started crying that she wanted the pink donut. The mother then started asking the cashier questions. She wanted to know if the cupcakes were gluten-free. She asked if the brownies had nuts in them, and if so, what kind of nuts. It was like she was trying to take as long as possible. It was a performance, and she had the whole stage.
The person behind me muttered something about getting the manager. The poor cashier looked up from the pastry case with wide, scared eyes and said he would page him, but that his manager was in the stockroom and might not hear the page right away. I knew then that no manager was coming. It was just us, and this woman, and her victory.
She finally finished ordering. Two cupcakes, a donut, two bottles of expensive juice, and a sandwich for herself. She paid with her credit card, gathered her bags, and walked out of the bakery without making eye contact with anyone. Her kids were happily eating their treats as they pushed through the door. She didn’t look back. She got what she wanted, and that was all that mattered. She faced no trouble at all. The old man who had defended her shook his head slowly as he looked at me, like I was the problem with the world.
When I finally got to the counter, the sourdough bread I wanted was gone. They had sold the last loaf to the person right before me. I just bought a plain baguette I didn’t even want and left. My foot hurt so bad on the walk home. It felt like every step was a punishment. But the pain in my foot wasn’t as bad as the feeling in my stomach. It was that feeling of being completely powerless.
What I hate the most is that I live in this neighborhood. I will have to go back to that bakery. I will probably see her again, at the grocery store or the park. I keep picturing it in my head. I imagine seeing her across an aisle, and that same calm, confident look on her face. And I know if I see her, I’ll feel that same hot, helpless feeling all over again, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
