I work in security, and I am a gate guard for a public-owned outdoor entertainment area. While I’m waiting there, a man walks past taking his young son — three or four — to daycare.

Man: “Boys don’t cry, [Son]. Only girls do.” *Sees me and addresses me* “Isn’t that right?”

Me: “Actually, boys can cry. Only really strong men and boys cry; it’s weak men that think only girls do. If you cry, it’s because you are a strong boy.”

The man goes red in the face, hurries to the daycare down the road, and then comes back to yell at me. I turn around and point out:

Me: “I’m a female in the role of a male. I’m doing a ‘man’s’ job. And you are a chauvinist pig to teach your son such toxic masculinity.”

Man: “Well, I’m French and that is our culture.”

Me: “This is New Zealand and it is not our culture.”

I’m a teenager in this story. My laptop has a persistent hardware issue; every time I get it repaired, the issue gradually recurs over the course of several months, starting as an annoyance and eventually rendering the computer unusable.

I’ve noticed the problem starting again and have decided to be proactive about it for once. I don’t want to send the computer back to the manufacturer, wait several weeks, and get my hard drive wiped, so I start looking for other options. I learn that a nearby major retailer with a good reputation has a repair service that will even work on computers they didn’t sell.

Since I’m not driving yet, I ask my mom to take me there. We’re standing in line when Mom decides to start eavesdropping. An employee is talking to a customer several places ahead of us.

Employee: “That will be $200.”

Mom: “That’s way too much! We’re not getting your computer fixed here.”

Me: “But Mom, we don’t even know what the other customer got done! Shouldn’t we at least find out what they’d charge me for my problem?”

Mom: “No, we’re going to look somewhere else.”

We leave the store and start driving around town. Mom spots a building by the side of the road with a sign saying, “We repair computers/phones/tablets.” She pulls into their parking lot.

Me: “I don’t like this. I never even heard of this place, and it looks kind of sketchy.”

Mom: “Let’s at least talk to them and then you can decide what to do.”

We get out of the car and go into the shop. Mom seems inexplicably excited to learn that it’s run by a couple of guys who recently graduated from the local university. Granted, we both went there, too, but it’s a BIG school. It’s not like we know these guys.

Mom: “Can you help my daughter? Her computer isn’t charging right.”

Repair Guy: “Sure, show us the computer.”

I left the computer in the car because it was heavy, so Mom gives me her keys and tells me to go get it. I’m gone for maybe five minutes, if that. When I get back inside, the repair guy and my mom are in the middle of a conversation.

Repair Guy: “So, it’s $190, and you can pick it up in a week.”

First of all, that’s almost exactly the amount Mom said was too much, and second of all, wasn’t I supposed to have a say in this? Or at least a minute to talk to the repair guys about what’s actually wrong? I’m about to point out all of these issues when Mom shoots me a “Shut up” look.

Mom: “That sounds good! [My Name], give them the computer.”

I really didn’t have a good feeling about this, but it’s rarely worth the trouble to argue with Mom, so I handed over the computer and we left.

On the ride home, Mom proudly told me how, while I was outside and unable to participate in the conversation, she “explained” to the repair guys what was wrong with the computer. Of course, since she didn’t use it herself, she left out a couple of important symptoms.

A week later, we picked up the computer. To their credit, the repair guys had at least finished on time, and the computer did work when I picked it up. They claimed that they’d found the underlying cause of the problem and the computer should work fine now.

The problem recurred in two weeks and I was never able to get the computer to work properly again. I was now out the cost of a new laptop PLUS two hundred dollars.

I didn’t complain to the repair shop because it may not have been their fault. I have no idea what my mother, convinced she knew what she was talking about, actually told them. Of course, I’ve never been able to convince her that any part of this is her fault, either.

I’m helping my mother move house as well as streaming to Twitch on the side.

One day, I’m about halfway through a stream when she texts me.

Mother: “I need your help. It’s an emergency! Come as soon as you can.”

I immediately ended the stream without even saying goodbye, hopped in the car, and drove to where she was in the next city over.

It turns out she wanted me to assemble a chair for her, despite her being more than capable and having five other chairs, a couch, and a loveseat.

I work in a bakery and it’s a super-busy Saturday. The whole day has had a queue out of the door, the store manager has called off sick with severe food poisoning, and due to physical distancing guidelines, we’re trying to keep the number of people in the shop down. Despite frequent reminders, they continue to pack in like sardines.

After waiting in the queue for a fair amount of time, a young girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, comes to the till. Her mother is just behind her but says nothing the entire time. She’s holding a Capri-Sun which she places on the counter.

Child: “Can I have a burger, please?”

Me: *Nonplussed* “I’m sorry, we don’t have any burgers. We sell pastries. Did you want one of those?”

Child: “That’s a burger.”

She points at the display behind me, which has a changing screen and some fancy images. I look at what she’s pointing at and realise it’s a picture of one of our common chicken sandwiches in a seeded bun with salad. I can see how it looks like a burger to a kid.

Me: “Ah! No, I’m so sorry, that’s a chicken sandwich.”

Child: “Can I have a chicken sandwich, please?”

Me: “Sure! They’re all in that fridge over there.”

I pointed out the fridge through the growing crowd. The little girl immediately turned and ran through the people to the fridge. Her mother stayed standing in front of me. I couldn’t do anything.

Eventually, the mother seemed to realise her child was gone. She wasn’t on the phone or anything; she was just standing there. She turned and walked through the crowd. I waited for a moment and then continued to serve the crowd.

A few minutes later, the child returned and put the chicken sandwich in front of me with her Capri-Sun. Her mother paid, still silent, and they both left.

I’m still puzzled how they spent that whole time in the queue, very clearly at a bakery, and didn’t communicate once. The child was incredibly sweet and polite, but I spent a lot of time puzzled.

My sister has two kids from a previous marriage. They share custody and she has the weekends “off”. She is still bitter about it years later. Everything the kids’ father does, the slightest failing, is blown out of proportion. The one time he has a family emergency and can’t have the kids, she refuses.

We talk her round and she reluctantly takes the kids.

Sister: “You don’t understand. I have so much to do.”

Mother: “It is an emergency; his uncle is in hospital.”

Sister: “Well, why can’t he sort it out another way?”

Me: “Because they’re your kids? Why would he ask anyone else to do it?”

Sister: “You know I love my children, but I have so much to do.”

Me: “Ugh, I could cancel my hair appointment and take them to the park if you actually have something to do.”

Sister: “Great, thanks! You can have them at eight.”

Their dad drops them off at eight, and I take them to the park, then for a drink, then for a walk, and then to the shops. I’m gone for even longer than I thought, but we have fun. I get home and my sister isn’t home.

Me: “Where is she?”

Mother: “She told me she would be back by now. I called her but she isn’t picking up.”

Me: “The nerve of her! Let me check online.”

I checked her story. It was all her posting selfies and pampering herself, tagging “hardworking mom” and “single mom battles.” Her friend kept gushing how much she deserved it and how well she was doing and all that.

I resisted posting the truth, but that’s the last time I helped her.