I knew something had to be done when my new neighbors put a camera pointed at my backyard. A straightforward idea to teach children a lesson about privacy quickly devolved into a crazy performance that attracted the attention of the local authorities, with unanticipated repercussions.
My mother has always been a model of inspiration for me. As a housekeeper at an upscale local hotel, she takes enormous pride in her work. She treats every guest room as if it were her own, making sure everything is immaculate and inviting.
However, recently she had an encounter that really tested her patience. It started on what seemed to be a typical day. My mother was assigned to clean room 256, which was occupied by a young lady named Ms. Johnson.
From the moment my mom walked into the room, she could feel Ms. Johnson’s disdain for her. The woman lounged on the bed, engrossed in her phone, hardly acknowledging my mother’s presence.
As my mother diligently cleaned the room, ensuring every corner was spotless, Ms. Johnson abruptly knocked her coffee over, spilling dark liquid onto the just-mopped floor. She didn’t even react. Instead, she looked at my mom with a sneer and said, “Clean that up!”
My mother’s heart sank. She had worked so hard to perfect the room, only to see her efforts carelessly undone. But she knew she couldn’t risk losing her job. It gave her a sense of independence and provided stability for our family.
Swallowing her pride, she silently cleaned the floor again, feeling Ms. Johnson’s mocking gaze on her. As she worked, the woman laughed, the sound echoing through the room. “Well done for a housekeeper. You didn’t even stand up to me,” she taunted with dripping sarcasm. “Tomorrow, I’ll think of something more challenging for you.”
My mother finished her work, holding back tears. Showing any distress would only please the woman more. That night, as she recounted the incident to me, I saw the hurt in her eyes but also a spark of determination. She wasn’t going to let this spoiled guest shatter her spirit.
The next day, my mom went to work with a plan. She knew Ms. Johnson would try to embarrass her again, but this time, she was ready. She was set on showing the woman that kindness and respect are not weaknesses, and underestimating someone who works with pride is a grave mistake.
Around mid-morning, my mother entered room 256 with a steely resolve. There she was, Ms. Johnson, already smirking.
“Oh, look who’s back,” Ms. Johnson said with disdain. “Let’s see what mess I can make for you today.” She reached for her coffee cup, mischief glinting in her eyes.
My mother remained composed, ready for what was coming. Silently, she began her cleaning routine, meticulous and efficient, not rising to the bait. She noticed something important: Ms. Johnson’s laptop was open on the table, the screen illuminated with unattended work.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” my mother said politely. “I need to dust the table. Could you please close your laptop?”
Ms. Johnson huffed and rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she muttered, shutting the laptop with an exaggerated sigh. “But make it quick. I have important work.”
“Of course, ma’am,” my mother responded steadily.
“You’re slower than yesterday,” Ms. Johnson remarked sarcastically. “Don’t they teach speed in housekeeper school?” My mother ignored her, focusing on the task.
Ms. Johnson’s impatience was clear as she drummed her fingers on the table. “Are you done yet?” she snapped.
“Almost, ma’am,” my mother calmly replied.
Just then, the door opened, and Mr. Ramirez, the hotel manager, entered. He scanned the room. “Good morning, Ms. Johnson,” he greeted warmly. “I hope everything is satisfactory?”
Ms. Johnson scoffed. “It’s fine. Your housekeeper here is just clumsy and slow.”
Mr. Ramirez frowned slightly. “I’m sorry to hear that. We train our staff to provide excellent service.”
“Maybe she needs more training,” Ms. Johnson said disdainfully, glancing at my mother.
Mr. Ramirez turned to my mother with concern. “Mrs. Adams, is there a problem?”
My mother met his gaze calmly. “No, Mr. Ramirez. Everything is under control.”
Mr. Ramirez nodded, though his concern lingered. “Ms. Johnson, we will ensure your stay is as comfortable as possible.”
Ms. Johnson waved dismissively. “Just make sure she doesn’t break anything.”
Mr. Ramirez smiled encouragingly at my mother before leaving. As the door closed behind him, a surge of confidence washed over her. She was ready for whatever came next from Ms. Johnson.
She continued her work, with one more subtle plan. Knowing Ms. Johnson wouldn’t learn until experiencing some discomfort herself, she placed a small, harmless, yet unpleasant-smelling packet under the bed. It was a trick, releasing a gradually intensifying odor, which would become bothersome over time.
“All done, ma’am,” my mother said, gathering her supplies. “Have a pleasant day.”
The next morning, my mother saw Ms. Johnson arguing with Mr. Ramirez in the lobby. The guest was furious.
“I can’t stay in that room! It stinks terribly! How do you expect guests to stay there?” she nearly shouted, attracting attention.
Mr. Ramirez, ever professional, stayed calm. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Ms. Johnson. We’ll investigate and move you to another room.”
Still fuming, Ms. Johnson stormed off. Mr. Ramirez turned to my mom, watching quietly. “Mrs. Adams, please check Ms. Johnson’s room for the source of the smell,” he asked calmly.
“Of course,” my mother replied, hiding a smile. She went to room 256, her heart pounding with satisfaction.
Inside, she quickly found and removed the packet, opened windows, and turned on the fan to clear the room. She felt triumphant. Ms. Johnson had gotten a taste of her own medicine.
Leaving the room, she saw Mr. Ramirez in the hall. “Did you find the source?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Ramirez,” she said. “Something was left under the bed. I’ve removed it and aired the room.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Adams,” he said, relieved. “You’ve done a great job, as always.”
My mother nodded, knowing small actions sometimes serve justice.
The following day, while moving Ms. Johnson’s belongings to another room, a courier arrived with a package for room 256. Knowing Ms. Johnson had moved to room 312, my mom saw an opportunity for a final lesson.
“Excuse me,” she said to the courier, “the guest moved to room 312. Please leave the package at the front desk, and I’ll make sure it gets to her.” The courier nodded, handing over the package.
My mom discreetly placed it in a corner at the front desk, behind other deliveries, ensuring it wouldn’t be found immediately.
The next day, Ms. Johnson panicked, preparing for her flight and a crucial event. Realizing something was missing, she called the front desk, frantic.
“A package was sent to room 256. Where is it? It has my tickets and dress for tonight!” Her voice mixed anger and desperation.
The clerk, surprised, searched records and found the package. They called my mom to deliver it to room 312.
My mother, calm and measured, knocked on Ms. Johnson’s door. The woman opened it, eyes wide with anxiety. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting!” she snapped.
“Here’s your package, ma’am. It was delivered to the wrong room,” my mother said sweetly, holding it out.
Ms. Johnson snatched it, ripping it open. Realizing the delay cost her dearly, with unusable tickets and no time to prep for her event, she muttered, “Thanks,” and slammed the door.
My mother walked away, smiling. She had made Ms. Johnson realize the consequences of her actions, all without stepping out of her duties. It was a quiet but deeply satisfying victory.
When she told me later, relief was clear in her eyes “Sometimes,” she said firmly, “the best revenge is letting people face their own consequences.”
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