My Rage Is Mom's Anti‑Aging Secret

Mom's eyes darted around for a second before she turned to bark at the cashier, "Exactly! My daughter is a business owner. Does she look like the kind of person who'd steal two dollars from you?"

The cashier clicked her tongue. She sized me up from head to toe before finally resting her gaze on my face. Her tone dripped with disdain as she said, "Being a business owner doesn't prove anything. Looking the way she does, maybe she's got some kind of kleptomania."

Her words hit like a slap.

My hand beside me curled into a fist before I could stop it.

Whispers and muttered comments floated around. Someone even snapped pictures.

"Wow, she looks so old! Even older than my mom. Does she not take care of herself?"

"Maybe she really has some weird habits."

"I thought the woman beside her was her daughter. Turns out that's her mother. What a plot twist! The mother looks younger than the child."

Memory after memory of those same judgmental stares began to needle at me again. I could barely breathe.

Instinctively, I lowered my head, trying to shield my face from view.

But the cashier wasn't letting it go. She grabbed my arm and pointed a finger at the fine schedule posted by the door. "A thousand-dollar fine for every dollar stolen. That's two thousand dollars, or I'm calling the cops."

My fingers wouldn't stop shaking. I took a jagged breath and glared at her with a sneer. "Fine. Call them. Even if there are no cameras, there are enough people coming and going that someone must have seen something.

"Besides, if you're so sure I stole it, my fingerprints will be all over that lollipop. Let's have it tested and see what the truth is—"

Suddenly, Mom cut me off sharply, "We can't call the cops!"

Her sudden outburst startled me.

Her gaze flickered nervously before she softened her tone. "Tara, it's just two dollars. There's no need to involve the police over something so small.

"It's not like we can't afford the two thousand dollars anyway. Let's not make things difficult for the cashier. She's just a worker trying to make a living."

The cashier smirked triumphantly. "Exactly. I guess your face really is a window to your soul. Your mother is much more reasonable than you."

A few people in the crowd chimed in.

"Yeah, no need to waste police resources. The mother has the right idea."

"How can a mother and daughter be so different? Typical capitalist. No empathy for the working class."

Anger flared in my chest at Mom's words.

How was I the one making things difficult? I hadn't stolen a thing.

When things were this messy, the police were the only logical choice. Paying the fine now would be a silent confession of guilt.

I looked at Mom, feeling a pang of resentment.

For the first time, I ignored her advice and demanded the authorities be called. "This incident affects my reputation and could even impact my company's stock price.

"I've already said the item can be tested for evidence. If you insist I'm a thief, then press charges. If you win, I'll pay whatever is owed. But if you lose, I will be suing for defamation."

The cashier's bravado vanished instantly. She looked resentful but eventually stepped aside, muttering curses under her breath, "Whatever. Just my luck!"

Mom kept apologizing to the woman.

The onlookers' glares at me grew even more hostile.

I didn't care anymore. I headed straight for the restroom. The moment I locked myself in a stall, I nearly collapsed.

I couldn't stop those piercing stares from playing on a loop in my mind. With trembling hands, I fished my medication out of my pocket and swallowed a pill before I could calm down.

Just as I went to open the door, I heard voices out by the sinks.