(I work in a museum section that has a lot of children come through, so we have colouring and other activities. They’re usually related to museum content: native animals and the like. I am a woman and an arachnologist.)

Patron: *holding a colouring sheet* “Do you have anything for my girls to colour in?”

(I look behind her. There’s two girls and two boys. The girls look a little older, but not by much.)

Me: “The girls are allowed to colour in, too, if they want. We don’t mind.”

Patron: “No, like, colouring that the girls can do.”

Me: “I don’t understand what you mean. Are you worried about the pencils? The chairs?”

Patron: “I need something girl-ish, for the girls to colour in. This has a spider on it. Spiders are for boys.”

Me: *very long pause* “Ma’am. Spiders are for everyone.”

(My coworker and I are dressing mannequins. They are fairly new, so this is the first time either of us has seen them undressed. The mannequins are female.)

Coworker: “Whoa, look at the package on this one!” *there’s a prominent bulge in the pubic region* “Isn’t it supposed to be female?”

Me: “It’s got boobs.”

Coworker: *taps a boob* “I know, but they don’t feel real to me.”

(I recently divorced my abusive, controlling husband. I have been awarded custody of our two kids, and he was ordered to pay child support. My ex-husband left us with nothing, has never paid any of the alimony or child support that the court ordered him to, and has constantly done whatever he can to make life difficult for us. Ordering food deliveries has been his latest weapon of choice. One evening I’m standing in the kitchen, looking over the little food I’ve been able to buy, wondering how I’m going to feed both of my children and myself, when there’s a knock at the door. I groan, as I know it’s yet another food delivery that my ex-husband has ordered, and that I’m going to have to explain a painful and embarrassing situation to yet another person. I open the door, and sure enough, there’s a man from a local pizza company here with a large amount of pizzas, enough to feed an entire sports team. I barely manage to return his greeting before I start crying.)

Delivery Man: “Hi, I’ve got an order for… Ma’am? Is something wrong?”

Me: *between sobs* “I… I’m so sorry. You were pranked. My ex-husband ordered all this, trying to hurt me by making me spend money I don’t have. I’m so sorry, but I didn’t order this, I can’t pay for it, and you’ve had your time wasted.”

(At this point, my children start quietly asking me:)

Children: “Mummy, are we having pizza tonight? Can we keep it? Please?”

(Their pleas cut me to the quick, and I start sobbing, unable to control myself any longer.)

Delivery Man: “Your ex did this? To what end? To hurt you? To upset those adorable munchkins that are trying to hide behind the wall over there?”

Me: *sobbing harder* “Yes.”

(The delivery man looks incredibly angry.)

Delivery Man: “Ma’am, all of this is on me. There is no circumstance where I’ll stand by and allow someone to cause so much hurt to a mother and her children. Keep all of this. Whatever you can’t eat, freeze. If you reheat it in the oven, it’ll be as good as fresh. Whenever you run out, call the store and ask for me by name. I’ll bring you enough food to keep you and your kids fed as long as you need.”

(At this point, I am crying so hard that I can barely respond to him. His kindness has completely overwhelmed me, and my children are smiling for the first time in weeks. I try to offer him money, and he brushes my attempt away.)

Delivery Man: “Ma’am, I cannot take anything from you. Your ex tried to use me to hurt you; I’m not going to be used in such a manner. I’ve had my own share of experiences similar to yours, and turning an act of hate into an act of empathy is enough for me. You keep taking care of your kids, and call my store whenever you need.”

(With that, he carried everything into my kitchen, ruffled my childrens’ hair, flashed me a cheerful grin, and wished us all a good night. While I never took him up on his offer to deliver us food whenever we needed it, I will never forget the impact he had on my children and me in the darkest time of our lives. His generosity and kindness not only gave my children a full belly but renewed my faith in the kindness of people. I doubt he’ll ever read this, but if he does, I want to say thank you. He brightened all our lives.)

Related:
A Hot Slice Of Kindness, Part 3
A Hot Slice Of Kindness, Part 2
A Hot Slice Of Kindness

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(An older gentleman walks into the store. He looks extremely sour.)

Me: “Hi—”

Customer: *interrupting* “Pump three.”

Me: “Interesting way of saying, ‘Hello,’ but we’ll roll with that! So, pump three, $[amount] on… the card today?”

(The customer stares at card terminal.)

Me: “Okay, no worries.” *pause as transaction goes through* “…and that’s approved! You have a great day!”

(I turn to my screen to bring up the next customer, and then turn back to find the man still standing there.)

Me: “Do… you need a receipt?”

(He confirms this with a five-degree inclined nod.)

Me: “No worries. Sorry about that. I didn’t realise, because you didn’t say anything.”

Customer: *shouting* “Look: there’s no need to be a f****** smarta**!”

Me: “Um, I wasn’t. I was just–“

Customer: “I don’t want to hear it!”

(He proceeds to go on a rant as he walks out the door, leaning back to hurl more abuse as I calmly try to apologise for obvious miscommunication. Suddenly, he screams that he’ll never shop here again. It is at this point that my boyfriend, who works in the office, steps in.)

Boyfriend: *jumping out of office and running to service area* “Good! F*** off, then. We don’t want f****** a**holes like you here!”

(The man gets in his car and screeches off.)

Boyfriend: “Only I’m allowed to yell at you.”

(Going through the drive-thru, we notice a sign that says, “Paywave cards only,” referring to “contactless” payment, where the card is touched to the machine and no PIN is required. We get to the window and hand the employee our card. She walks away with it and comes back.)

Employee: “This card isn’t contact-lense.”

Husband: “Sorry?”

Employee: *impatiently* “This card isn’t contact-lense.”

(We exchange a glance and decide not to bother pointing out her mistake. We give her another card. She takes it, takes payment, and returns with our card and food.)

Employee: *huffy* “Next time, read the sign. ‘Contact-lense cards only.’”