It was one of those long, dragging days where nothing seemed urgent, and my brain hates "nothing." I need stimulation or I'll create my own. So, on my lunch break, I did something very on-brand for me: I printed one of my boss's emails. And graded it. Like an actual English paper. Red pen in hand, I went full teacher-mode, circling errors, fixing punctuation, marking run-ons, leaving little "awkward phrasing" notes in the margins. When I finished, I didn't just grade it. I failed her. Big fat red F across the top. Because her grammar wasn't just bad, it was catastrophic.
Now, normally I might have felt guilty. But this woman? She wasn't exactly busting her ass out there with us. We had a whole team of fifty people to schedule, and the program practically did it for you. When I made the schedule, it took me a couple hours. When she made the schedule, it took her days. Days. Mostly because she was parked at her computer, pretending to look busy while everyone else worked the floor. Even my cousin, who managed the grocery side, would call her out. "She's supposed to be running her department," he'd grumble, "not sitting at a desk scrolling through fake productivity." It drove him insane.
So no, I didn't feel that bad about failing her email.
But when she found it? Oh, she was pissed. She scribbled at the bottom in her own handwriting: "If you have time to do this, then you're not taking your job seriously."
Cue me dying inside. I had to explain it wasn't meant as an insult, that I'd done it on my lunch break, that I used to want to be an English teacher, and that honestly, I just thought it was fun. She didn't buy it. I felt awkward as hell standing there, apologizing for grading my boss like she was in high school English. But deep down? I didn't regret the F. She earned it.
Hitting my one-year mark at the company meant evaluation time. Normally, evaluations didn't scare me. I'd done enough of them myself to know how they worked. It was a simple scale: one through four. Four was exceptional, three was solid and acceptable, two meant "needs improvement," and a one was basically a scarlet letter for "failure." I rarely gave anyone a one unless they were constantly late or calling in.
When I took over doing reviews for my department, I knew the drill: you print them out, fill them in, give feedback. My boss used to be the only one who handled them, which was convenient for her since it gave her another excuse to stay upstairs glued to her computer instead of actually working. Eventually, I took over that responsibility, one less thing for her to half-do.
So one day I go to grab the usual stack of reviews. Same folder as always. And tucked inside? My review. Naturally, curiosity won. I pulled it out and started reading. My stomach dropped. Mostly ones. A couple of twos sprinkled in, like she was being generous. I had never in my entire career seen a review that low, and it was mine. No reasoning, no examples, just vague little barbs like "needs improvement" or "could do better." Nothing like, "Oh, Lola punched a baby in the face once at work," or, "I personally witnessed Lola spit on a customer." No, just generic filler.
It wasn't constructive. It was petty. For the first time, I felt a mix of embarrassment and anger flood me. Because I knew what a review that low could mean. If the wrong person believed it, I could lose my job. And my job was one of the few areas of my life I was proud of. I wasn't usually confrontational, but this? This wasn't going on my record.
I brought the review to one of my team leads, a retired military guy who ran his section with no-nonsense precision. He read through it, jaw tightening, and when he finished he looked at me like, Are you kidding me? He was pissed on my behalf. His advice was simple: "Take it to the assistant store manager. Don't sign this. Let him read it."
So I did. I went to the ASM over our area, laid the review on his desk, and explained calmly, "I don't feel like this was fair. I'd like you to look it over. If you think it's accurate, I'll accept it, but I'd prefer if you gave me my review directly."
He read it. Looked back at me. Then shook his head. Next thing I know, he's giving me my actual review. All threes, a few fours. Exactly what I expected. He told me straight out: "You're a great employee. You do a good job. You're an investment and an asset to this company."
Validation. Relief. Pure gold.
And here's the best part: Later that week, my boss calls me upstairs. She pulls me into the private meeting room with a stack of papers. She launches right in, reading from the review she had written for me, the one filled with ones and twos. The office was too small for how big her voice felt. I sat stiff in the chair across from her, hands knotted in my lap, as she stared at me over the top of the paper. Her lips curved in a smile, but it wasn't kindness. It was the smile of someone who wanted blood. "Let's get this over with," she said, flipping to the first page. "Your performance this year? Frankly, embarrassing."
I stayed silent. She leaned forward. "You're belligerent. You don't respect authority. You treat management like we're beneath you."
I blinked, heat rising to my cheeks. "And don't think I don't hear what the team says," she went on, her voice sharpening. "Nobody likes you, Lola. Nobody respects you. You're unlikable. People dread working with you."
The words stabbed deeper than I wanted to admit. My chest went tight, my palms clammy. She knew exactly where to cut.
"And customers? Please. You think you're good with them, but I hear the complaints. You come off smug, rude. Honestly, I don't know how you think that smile of yours helps. It doesn't." She flipped another page, dragging her nail down a row of "1s" marked on the paper. "Attendance? A joke. Leadership? Nonexistent. Professionalism? Nowhere to be found."
Inside, I wanted to scream. I wanted to shout that I lived an hour away, that I was raising two small kids alone. That unlike her, I didn't get to schedule myself off every weekend my husband didn't have custody of his kids, or just call in because I felt like it. But instead, I sat there, pulse pounding, letting her pile insult after insult on top of me.
"Honestly," she added, her voice low, venomous, "you should be grateful we even kept you this long. Because if it were up to me? I'd have cut you already."
For fifteen minutes, she tore me apart. My character. My work ethic. My very worth as a person. And I sat there, trapped, swallowing the humiliation like glass shards. At last, she slid the paper across the desk. "Sign it."
I stared at the line. Then, finally, I lifted my head. My voice came out steady, almost calm. "I already did."
Her brow furrowed. "No, you didn't. Don't play games."
"I already had my review, with the assistant store manager."
The color drained from her face. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the folded copy, sliding it across the desk. "This is mine."
She snatched it up, scanning the words, her face twisting as she read the rows of 3s and 4s. Exceptional in leadership. Exceptional in customer service. The very categories she had tried to crucify me with. Her jaw tightened. Her lips thinned. The loathing in her eyes was so sharp it could have cut through steel.
I stood, heart hammering but chin high. "So, no need for me to sign that one."
The silence that followed was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard. Later, I told the assistant manager everything. I played back the recording, fifteen minutes of venom, preserved word for word. Every insult. Every lie. Every attempt to break me. She got written up. I walked away with my head high, review in my pocket, and t