Have you ever had one of those moments when the past barges into your life, completely uninvited? One minute, I’m wiping down tables at the restaurant I own, immersed in the daily grind. The next, I’m staring straight into the eyes of the girl who made my high school years unbearable.

It was an ordinary day. The restaurant—a cozy little spot where the scent of freshly brewed coffee greets you before you even step inside—was alive with its usual hum. Regulars exchanged smiles and small talk, and the team worked like a well-oiled machine. We’re like family here, picking up slack for each other without hesitation.

Today, it was my turn to help out since Beth, one of our waitresses, wasn’t feeling well. She’s pregnant, glowing even, but had a faint spell earlier, so we insisted she rest while we covered her duties.

I was scrubbing a table near the back, lost in the familiar rhythm, when I heard it—laughter. Not just any laughter, but the kind that drags you back to high school hallways and sharpens every jagged memory. My stomach tightened before I even looked up. I knew who it was.

Heather Parker.
The queen bee of high school, the master of cutting remarks, and my personal tormentor for four long years. She swept into the restaurant like she owned it, her laughter echoing as her loyal posse, Hannah and Melissa, followed close behind.

For a moment, I froze. Cloth in hand, I stood there like a deer in headlights. The familiar sting of humiliation pricked at my skin, but I shook it off. I’m not that person anymore, I reminded myself. Still, when Heather’s gaze landed on me, her lips curled into that all-too-familiar smirk, and time seemed to rewind.

“Well, well, well,” she drawled, her voice louder than necessary. “Look who we have here. Still wiping down tables, huh? Guess that’s all you ever amounted to.”

Her entourage giggled on cue. The words were sharp, but I kept my focus on the table in front of me, refusing to let her see the anger simmering inside. I’ve worked too hard, come too far, to let her drag me back to that insecure teenager.

But Heather wasn’t done. “Is this what you dreamed of back in high school? Cleaning up after people who actually made something of themselves?”

Then, as if to add insult to injury, she snapped her fingers at me. “Hey, waitress! Think you can manage some water? Or is that too much for you?”

Before I could respond, Jack, my sous-chef, emerged from the kitchen, his imposing frame a wall of quiet strength. His arms crossed, and his gaze hardened as he stepped to my side. “You don’t talk to her like that,” he said, his tone calm but razor-sharp.

Behind him, Maria, our head chef, wiped her hands on her apron and joined us. Her expression was thunderous. “If you’ve got a problem, take it elsewhere,” she said firmly. “We don’t tolerate disrespect here.”

Heather faltered, her confidence flickering for a split second before she rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Oh, come on. We’re just being honest. Isn’t it sad? Who even cleans tables these days?”

Jack didn’t budge. “She works harder in a day than you ever will in your entire life,” he said evenly. “Now, do you want that water, or are you done embarrassing yourself?”

The team rallied around me—Sarah, our bartender, and the rest of the staff quietly stepping up, their presence a silent yet powerful show of support. Sarah spoke up next, her voice unshaken. “We don’t need your attitude here. Either show some respect, or find the door.”

Heather’s bravado started to crack. “We’ll just speak to your manager,” she sneered, as if she held some trump card.

I smiled and stepped forward, finally ready to end it. “You already have,” I said, my voice steady.

Her smug expression faltered. “What?”

“I’m the manager here,” I continued, letting the weight of my words hang in the air. “Actually, I own this place.”

The color drained from her face as realization hit. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment before my team erupted into cheers and applause. Jack clapped me on the back, Maria let out a triumphant whoop, and Sarah grinned like she’d won the lottery.

Heather, on the other hand, was utterly speechless. Her entourage, once so eager to join in her mockery, now avoided her gaze. She stammered something incoherent before Sarah, arms crossed, delivered the final blow. “I think it’s time you left. We don’t need your negativity here.”

Heather turned a deep shade of red, her confidence completely shattered. She and her friends gathered their things and hurried out the door without another word. The bell above the door jingled as they left, and the air instantly felt lighter.

As the room settled, Jack leaned in with a wink. “Now that was satisfying.”

“Karma,” I said with a laugh, “served with a side of justice.”