I was just about to clock out from our small family pizzeria when a woman stormed in, slamming the door behind her. She was dressed in an expensive coat and clutched a pizza box like it was about to explode. Her voice echoed across the shop as she demanded to see the manager. My grandmother, calm as ever behind the counter, simply looked up and asked, “Can I help you, dear?”

“This isn’t what I ordered!” the woman snapped, throwing the box onto the counter. I stepped back instinctively—not from fear, but because I’d seen Grandma handle much worse. “What are you going to do about it?” the woman hissed. The rest of the customers froze, their eyes flicking between the irate woman and my unshaken grandmother.

Grandma didn’t flinch. “I’m not going to do anything, sweetheart,” she said, voice gentle. The woman exploded, threatening to ruin our business. Then, without raising her voice, Grandma calmly closed the pizza box and pointed at the logo on it. “That’s not our pizza,” she said. The woman looked down. Confusion overtook her face as she realized she’d brought in a pizza from the shop across the street.

Color drained from her face. She stammered, looking from the box to the wall, understanding slowly sinking in. With trembling hands, she grabbed the pizza and darted toward the exit without another word. As the bell above the door jangled behind her, the entire room burst into laughter. “Did you see her face?” someone gasped.

I peeked out the window to see her lingering awkwardly outside the rival shop. Their staff was watching and laughing, too. When their manager called out, reminding her she left with someone else’s order, she nearly ran off in embarrassment.

Grandma just smiled, wiping the counter. “Sometimes, life serves up a slice of humble pie.” I couldn’t agree more.