“Grandma, should I walk you to the exit?” the salesgirl sneered, looking me up and down. “These things aren’t for pensioners. Maybe you should try the market?”
I was standing by the display case with the dresses. I had a bag in my hands and a jacket hanging over my shoulder. The girl behind the counter was looking at me as if I were a cockroach in a salad.
“I’m just looking,” I said calmly.
“Sure, just looking,” the salesgirl snorted. “We know your type. You’ll try everything on, wrinkle it all up, and leave without buying anything. This is a boutique, you understand? Not a secondhand shop.”
She was young, about twenty-eight, wearing a tight black dress, bright manicured nails, and an arrogant expression. The badge on her chest read: Kristina.
A thought flashed through my mind: she had no idea that a month ago I had bought this boutique together with the building. And right now, she was being rude to her boss.
“May I look at your new arrivals?” I asked, pointing to the rack of dresses.
“New arrivals?” Kristina walked along the display case, adjusting the hangers. “Grandma, are you sure? These are all expensive. Very expensive. Maybe you’d be better off in the discounted section? They have something simpler there.”
I stepped closer and picked up a blue dress. The fabric felt nice, silky, and the cut was classic. A good piece.
“How much is this one?” I asked.
Kristina glanced at the price tag and smirked.
“Sixty-eight thousand rubles,” she drawled. “But there’s no point in you even looking. It’s clearly out of your budget.”
I said nothing. I held the dress in my hands, examined the seams, checked the quality of the finishing. The dress was worth the money. Maybe it was even cheaper than it could have been.
“I’d like to try it on,” I said.
“Seriously?” Kristina raised an eyebrow. “You do understand that if you stain it or tear it, you’ll have to buy it, right? Those are our rules. No one is going to write off sixty-eight thousand for you.”
“I understand,” I nodded.
“All right then,” the salesgirl shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just tell me right away if you change your mind about buying it. Don’t waste my time for nothing. My lunch break is soon.”
She took the dress off the hanger and handed it to me carelessly, as if it were a floor rag.
“The fitting room is over there,” she nodded toward the corner. “And be careful with the zipper. It’s Italian. Delicate.”
I took the dress and went into the fitting room. I closed the door, undressed, and put it on. It fit perfectly. The blue color brought out my eyes, the cut hid the flaws in my figure, and the length was right. I turned in front of the mirror. A good dress. High-quality. Worth its price.
I came out of the fitting room. Kristina was sitting behind the counter, flipping through a magazine and chewing gum. She did not even lift her head.
“Well?” I asked.
She lazily looked up from the magazine and glanced over me.
“Well, in principle, it’s fine,” she drawled. “For your age, quite all right. Although the neckline is a bit too deep, honestly. At fifty, you shouldn’t really show yourself off like that anymore. Wrinkles on the neck, you know, aren’t exactly flattering.”
I am fifty-four years old. I have wrinkles. But I am not ashamed of them. I earned them. Every wrinkle is a year of work, experience, and overcoming.
“I’ll take it,” I said.
Kristina put the magazine aside and straightened up.
“Seriously?” Her voice carried undisguised surprise. “You know exactly how much it costs?”
“Sixty-eight thousand rubles,” I repeated. “Yes, I know.”
The salesgirl stood up, came closer, and narrowed her eyes, studying me with new interest.
“Hm,” she drawled. “And how will you be paying? With your pension in installments? Or did your granddaughters chip in?”
I took a card out of my bag and placed it on the counter.
“With this card.”
Kristina picked up the card and turned it over in her hands. She saw the black plastic and the premium banking logo. She snorted.
“Oh, a black card,” she said with open sarcasm. “Did you find yourself a rich husband? Or does a sugar grandpa help you out? Though at your age, even a grandpa will do, as long as he pays.”
I did not answer. I simply looked at her calmly. I waited for her to process the payment. My hands did not shake. My voice did not break. I knew that in a few minutes her arrogance would crash into reality.
“All right, let’s check,” Kristina inserted the card into the terminal. “Now we’ll see whether there’s any money on it or whether it’s just plastic for showing off. These cards are sold in underpasses nowadays.”
The terminal beeped. The payment went through. Kristina pulled out the card and looked at the receipt. Her face turned sour, as if she had eaten a lemon.
“Here,” she muttered, handing me the card and receipt. “Go change. I’ll pack the dress.”
I returned to the fitting room, took off the dress, and put on my own clothes. When I came out, Kristina had already packed the purchase into a branded bag, but she did not even try to smile or thank me.
“Here, take it,” she shoved the bag across the counter. “And come again, if your pension allows it. Or if grandpa gives you money.”
I took the bag. I looked at the girl carefully.
“Kristina,” I said calmly. “How long have you been working here?”
She frowned and crossed her arms over her chest.
“What business is that of yours?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Three years, if you want to know,” the salesgirl snapped. “I’ve been stuck here for three years. So what?”
“So, three years,” I nodded. “I see. Tell me, do you know who owns this boutique?”
Kristina grimaced, as if the question irritated her.
“Of course I know. Marina Sergeevna used to be the owner. Then she sold it to someone. But I’ve never seen the new owner. Olga Petrovna, the manager, handles everything. Why are you asking?”
“Where is Olga Petrovna now?” I clarified.
“In the storage room, checking the delivery. New stock arrived. What, do you want to complain?” Kristina smirked. “What exactly are you planning to complain about? I didn’t do anything bad to you. I sold you the dress, took the money. Everything according to the rules.”
“Call her, please,” I asked.
“Why do you need the manager?” The salesgirl rolled her eyes. “Olga Petrovna is busy. She has a lot to do. She doesn’t have time to talk to every grandma.”
“Nevertheless, call her.”
Kristina snorted, but took out her phone and dialed a number.
“Olya, there’s a customer here demanding to speak with you. Yes, right now. Please come, otherwise she’s just standing here and won’t leave. Yeah, in the showroom. Okay.”
She hung up and looked at me defiantly.
“She’ll come now. But you’re wasting your time. I didn’t say anything like that. And anyway, I’m polite. Ask other customers.”
I said nothing. I stood by the counter, holding the bag with the dress. I looked out the window. Snow was falling behind the glass, and passersby hurried about their business. An ordinary winter day. An ordinary store. And now everything in it was about to change.
A minute later, a woman of about forty-five came out of the back room, wearing a strict gray suit, holding a folder in her hands, her face tired. Olga Petrovna. The manager. I had met her once, a month ago, when I signed the purchase agreement for the boutique. But she did not recognize me. Back then, I had been wearing glasses, my hair was pulled back into a strict bun, and I had on a dark business suit. Now my hair was loose, I was wearing jeans, a soft sweater, and light makeup. A completely different image.
“Good afternoon,” Olga Petrovna said politely, though a little cautiously. “How may I help you?”
“Good afternoon,” I replied. “Tell me, please, does Kristina always speak to customers like this?”
The manager frowned and quickly shifted her gaze to the salesgirl.
“What happened? Kristina, were there any problems?”
“There were no problems!” Kristina flared up. “I spoke to her normally! She’s just nitpicking!”
“She called me grandma,” I said calmly, looking Olga Petrovna in the eyes. “She offered to walk me to the exit because, in her opinion, I am not suitable for this boutique. She advised me to go to the market. She said I was wasting her time. She asked whether I was going to pay with my pension in installments or whether my granddaughters had chipped in. She hinted that I probably had a sugar grandpa giving me money. And she added that wrinkles on my neck are not flattering and that I should not wear a dress with a neckline.”
Olga Petrovna turned pale. She gripped the folder in her hands so tightly that her knuckles whitened.
“Kristina,” she said quietly, but very clearly. “Is this true?”
“She’s exaggerating everything!” the salesgirl shrieked. “I just joked a little! We have an informal atmosphere here! I always talk to customers like that, they don’t get offended!”
“A joke about a pension and a sugar grandpa?” The manager pressed her lips into a thin line. “Kristina, we have already discussed your manner of communication. You have received three written warnings over the past six months. This is absolutely unacceptable.”
“Oh, come on!” Kristina waved it off. “She bought the dress, didn’t she? Paid sixty-eight thousand! So everything is fine, right?”
“Fine?” I took my passport and ownership certificate out of my bag. I unfolded the documents and placed them on the counter in front of Olga Petrovna. “Please look carefully.”
The manager took the documents. She opened the ownership certificate. Read it. Turned even paler. Looked at me. Then back at the documents. Then at me again.
“My God,” she whispered. “Elena Viktorovna. Forgive me. I didn’t recognize you right away. You… you have changed so much. I mean, you look younger… simpler… different.”
Kristina stared with wide eyes.
“What? Who is she?”
“This is Elena Viktorovna Sokolova,” Olga Petrovna said slowly, struggling to pronounce the words. “The owner of this boutique and the entire building. She bought everything a month ago for eighteen million rubles. In full. The building, the business, the inventory, everything. And you just called her grandma. And said she had a sugar grandpa.”
Silence.
Kristina stood with her mouth open. Her face turned white, then red, then white again. She backed toward the wall and grabbed the counter with one hand, as if she were losing her balance.
“I… I didn’t know,” she mumbled. “I hadn’t seen… Forgive me, I thought…”
“You thought it was acceptable to be rude to older women,” I finished for her. “Because, in your opinion, they don’t deserve respect. Because supposedly they don’t have money. Because they are old. Because their place is at the market, not in a boutique.”
“No! That’s not what I meant!” Kristina grabbed her head. “I just… I didn’t think! It was a joke!”
“A joke,” I repeated. “So humiliating a person is a joke to you. I see. Olga Petrovna, how much does Kristina earn?”
“Sixty-five thousand rubles a month,” the manager answered quietly.
“For what exactly?”
“For working with customers. Consultations, sales, processing purchases.”
“And how does she work with customers? Well?”
Olga Petrovna was silent for a moment. She lowered her eyes.
“No,” she admitted. “Honestly, no. We’ve had complaints. Several times over the past year. People said Kristina was rude, arrogant, and dismissive. There were cases when customers left without buying anything specifically because of her behavior.”
“Why didn’t you fire her earlier?”
“I wanted to,” the manager sighed. “But I was afraid of being left without a salesperson. Finding a good, experienced employee in our niche is difficult. I thought maybe Kristina would improve. I gave her warnings, had talks with her.”
“She did not improve,” I stated. “That means it is time to act. Kristina, you are fired. Starting today. You will receive your final payment and may leave.”
The salesgirl grabbed the edge of the counter.
“You can’t do that!” she breathed. “I’ve worked here for three years! I have seniority! I have rights!”
“I can,” I replied calmly. “I am the owner. And I am not obligated to tolerate rudeness in my business. Olga Petrovna, please process the dismissal. For cause. Gross violation of workplace discipline and repeated violations of customer communication rules.”
“Understood,” the manager nodded. “I’ll do it today.”
“But I apologized!” Kristina stepped toward me, her voice trembling. “Give me one more chance! I’ll never do it again! I swear!”
I looked into her eyes.
“There is no need to swear. And no need to beg. You received three written warnings in six months. You were given chances. Many chances. You did not use them. You continued humiliating people. Now pay for your choice.”
“I hate you!” Kristina shouted, and real anger broke through in her voice. “You’re just a vindictive, evil old woman! You came here on purpose to set me up!”
Olga Petrovna stepped forward and firmly took the salesgirl by the elbow.
“Kristina, be silent immediately and go to the back room. Take your things and leave the premises. Right now. I will transfer your final payment to your card tomorrow.”
The salesgirl yanked her arm free, grabbed her bag from under the counter, tore the badge from her chest, threw it on the floor, and ran out of the showroom. The door slammed so hard that the glass in the display case trembled. The manager and I were left alone.
“Forgive me, Elena Viktorovna,” Olga Petrovna said, her voice shaking. “This is my fault. I should have fired her much earlier. I let you down.”
“Don’t worry,” I replied. “Now she is fired. That’s the main thing. Will you find a replacement?”
“Yes, of course. I have a candidate in mind. An experienced woman, forty-two years old, who worked in a similar boutique. Polite, not full of herself, with excellent references.”
“Wonderful. Hire her as soon as possible. And please hold a meeting with the rest of the staff. Explain to everyone very clearly: respect for customers is not an empty phrase. It is the foundation of our business. It does not matter how old a person is, how they are dressed, or how much money they have in their wallet. Every customer deserves attention, politeness, and proper service. That is an iron rule.”
“I understand,” Olga Petrovna nodded. “I will definitely have that talk. Today, after closing.”
“Thank you. And one more thing.” I took a business card out of my pocket and handed it to her. “If there are any problems, call me directly. At any time. I will be visiting the boutique once a week. Without warning. To see how things are really going.”
The manager took the business card, looked at it carefully, and put it into the pocket of her jacket.
“Good. I’ll stay in touch. And what about the dress, Elena Viktorovna? Are you satisfied with your purchase?”
I smiled.
“The dress is excellent. High-quality. I’ll wear it with pleasure.”
“I’m glad to hear that. If you need anything, please let me know.”
I said goodbye to Olga Petrovna and left the boutique. It was cold outside, a sharp wind was blowing, and snow slapped against my face. I walked to the car, opened the door, got behind the wheel, and placed the bag on the passenger seat. I started the engine and turned on the heater. I took my phone out of my bag and wrote a short message to Olga Petrovna: “Thank you for your prompt action. I’m waiting for the report on the new employee.” I pressed send and put the phone away.
I had saved eighteen million rubles over twenty years. I did not buy this building for profit. I bought it to have a place where I would be respected. Where people would not look at the date of birth in my passport.
Kristina thought age made me weak.
She was wrong.
Respect cannot be begged for.
It can only be earned.
And do you defend your dignity when someone tries to humiliate you, or do you stay silent to avoid conflict?