I walked into a flower shop to buy bouquets for my wife and daughter. I had already chosen one when I noticed an old man standing at the entrance.
He wore an old-fashioned coat, creased trousers, boots, and a simple shirt underneath the coat.
He didn’t look homeless. He was simply poor. But at the same time, he was remarkably neat and proud.
A young salesgirl approached the old man. Without even looking at him, she immediately said:
— “Why are you standing here, old man? You’re bothering the customers.”
The old man didn’t argue, he just quietly said:
— “Excuse me, miss… How much is a sprig of mimosa?”
The rude salesgirl sold the old man a broken sprig of mimosa. I couldn’t stay silent — I decided to help him.
The girl snapped irritably:
— “Are you crazy? I can see you don’t have any money. Why even ask?”
The old man pulled three crumpled ten-euro bills from his pocket and cautiously asked:
— “Maybe you have something for thirty?”
The salesgirl looked at the money, smirked, and pulled out an almost lifeless stem of mimosa — broken and faded.
— “Here, take it. Now get out of here.”
The old man carefully took the sprig and then thoughtfully tried to straighten it. At that moment, I noticed a tear roll down his cheek. The despair on his face was so deep, it made my heart ache.
I felt incredibly sorry for the poor old man, and I decided to teach the rude, ill-mannered salesgirl a lesson.
The continuation (as promised in the first comment):
The rude salesgirl sold the old man a broken mimosa sprig — I couldn’t hold back and decided to help him.
I walked up to the salesgirl, filled with anger:
— “Do you even realize what you’re doing?”
She turned and looked at me. Her face turned pale. She fell silent.
— “How much for the whole basket?” I asked.
— “What?… Well, around two hundred euros, I guess,” she mumbled.
I took out the money, handed it to her, grabbed the basket of flowers, and gave it to the old man.
— “Here, take it. You deserve it. Go and congratulate your wife.”
The old man stood there, unable to believe his eyes. He gave a quiet smile. Tears streamed down his face, but he still held onto that same broken sprig.
The rude salesgirl sold the old man a broken mimosa — I couldn’t hold back and decided to help him.
— “Let’s go together,” I suggested.
We went to the shop next door. I bought a cake and a bottle of good wine.
The old man still held the bouquet in his hands.
— “Grandpa,” I said, “Don’t worry. I have money. And you have a beloved wife. Make her happy.”
He nodded, unable to hold back the tears.
— “We’ve been together for forty-five years… She’s sick… But how could I show up without flowers on her birthday? Thank you, son…”