I was just about to untie my apron and call it a day when she stormed in—a whirlwind of fury wrapped in an expensive coat, clutching a pizza box like it was a ticking time bomb. The door slammed shut behind her with a force that made the windows rattle, and suddenly, our cozy little pizza shop felt like ground zero.“Where’s the manager?” she barked, her eyes laser-focused on the counter, where my grandmother was calmly manning the register, completely unfazed by the storm brewing just a few feet away. I paused, one hand still on the knot of my apron, and exchanged a glance with Grandma. “Is there something I can do for you, dear?” Grandma asked the irate woman. I couldn’t help but admire the way she handled these situations with the kind of grace I could only dream of having someday. “This isn’t the darn pizza I ordered! What the heck are you going to do about it?”
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