She treats the apartment building as her kingdom, with seven noisy children in tow, pushing carts, barking strangers. But when he kicked my deaf grandfather out of the elevator, something broke. I saw the images and that moment lit the fuse. She didn’t know it yet – but her reign was about to end.
I’m usually one of those who bow their heads and avoid conflicts, but that woman in our apartment building took me to the limit of my patience.
advertisement
Angelina Jolie’s Transformations In Cinema
A thoughtful man looking out a window | Source: Pexels
A thoughtful man looking out a window | Source: Pexels
She dominated the lobby as if she were the owner of the place. Not in a dignified and respectable way, but rather like a tornado that hopes everyone makes way for it.
And his children? Seven, all between six and twelve years old.
They were not small children to whom you could apologize for not knowing what they were doing. They were children old enough to know how to behave, but they chose chaos.
A screaming child | Source: Pexels
A screaming child | Source: Pexels
“Move!” he barled at anyone unlucky enough to stand in his way. “We’re going to pass!”
The first time I saw her in action, she was waiting for the mail.
His children swarmed through the lobby, with voices bouncing off the walls like rubber balls and slippers squeaking against the tiled floor.
Lobby of an apartment building | Source: Pexels
Lobby of an apartment building | Source: Pexels
“Jason! Get out of there!” he shouted, without even looking at the boy who was climbing the decorative column. “Maddie, stop pulling your brother’s hair!”
In reality, he never put an end to any of these behaviors. She only narrated it out loud, as if announcing the bad behavior of her children exempted her from the responsibility of correcting it.
Since then, I had seen her set aside shopping carts in the parking lot.
A shopping cart | Source: Pexels
A shopping cart | Source: Pexels
I had seen her order people to get out of the elevators as if they were their personal space. Most obeyed. I guess it was easier than arguing.
But then that Tuesday arrived.
My grandfather had moved in with me after my grandmother’s death.
An old man in a cemetery | Source: Pexels
An old man in a cemetery | Source: Pexels
At 82, he was still independent enough to do the shopping on his own. His headphones helped him, but some things kept escaping him, especially when there was background noise.
That night I was working late, but the security recordings don’t lie.
The grainy video showed Grandpa entering the elevator, but then she arrived.
The interior of an elevator | Source: Pexels
The interior of an elevator | Source: Pexels
He hurried up to the elevator, pushing his stroller while his gang of children went behind, pushing and arguing with each other. He screamed, as usual, but the video did not catch the audio.
Grandpa pressed the button to hold the doors, but it wasn’t enough.
“Get out,” he ordered, with a single easy-to-read word on his lips, pointing towards the lobby.
An outraged woman | Source: Pexels
An outraged woman | Source: Pexels
In the video without sound I could see the grandfather’s confusion.
He pointed to the panel and tried to explain that he was going to go up.
“Get out!” he said again, more strongly, waving his hand in a way of scaring.
A woman gesticulating angrily | Source: Pexels
A woman gesticulating angrily | Source: Pexels
And then – this part still makes my chest hurt – my grandfather got out of the elevator.
He stood there, clinging to the shopping bag like a lifeguard, looking lost and small while the woman and her offspring passed by his side.
The silent anguish of his posture was deeply stuck in my chest. Something changed in me that day. A silent vow was formed: This ends with me!
A sad old man | Source: Pexels
A sad old man | Source: Pexels
Let’s move forward two weeks.
I had just finished a twelve-hour shift at the hospital. I had the robe stuck to the skin and the shoes squeezed me despite being two sizes longer than my swollen feet.
All I wanted was to get home, take a shower and fall face down on the bed.
The city bus stopped in front of me.
A bus stopped on a curb | Source: Pexels
A bus stopped on a curb | Source: Pexels
When the doors opened, I immediately recognized the sounds of chaos before even seeing them.
“Mom! Tyler hit me again!”
“I didn’t do it! He’s lying!”
“I have a headache! I think I need points.”
“No one’s going to get stitches, Amber. It’s just a bump.”
Sitting there, suntuned on two seats, with the phone in her hand, she barely looked up from the battlefield that surrounded her.
Travelers on a bus | Source: Pexels
Travelers on a bus | Source: Pexels
His children used the bus as a gym: climbing the poles, hanging from the handles, throwing sandwich wrappers at each other.
A girl (Amber, I guessed) grabbed her forehead and lamented a wound on her head that, from what I could see, was no more than a small red mark.
The bus driver, a middle-aged man with the patience of a saint, finally spoke.
A bus driver | Source: Pexels
A bus driver | Source: Pexels
“Madam, could you please sit your children? It is not certain that they will be standing while the bus is running,” he said sternly.
“How do you say?”, his voice could have cut a crystal. “Do you have seven children? No? Then don’t tell me how to raise mine.”
I sat quietly behind, watching, absorbing.
A thoughtful man | Source: Pexels
A thoughtful man | Source: Pexels
Every scream, every arrogant word became fuel. When our building became visible, I felt the tension crackling under my skin.
Tonight was the night. I knew it.
I got to the elevator first, pressed the button and entered.
A man pressing the elevator button | Source: Pexels
A man pressing the elevator button | Source: Pexels
The brushed metal doors reflected my exhaustion: dark circles, wrinkled robe, hair crushed by the surgical cap.
Behind me, chaos spread through the lobby. The woman advanced at full speed, with the children crawling like ducklings behind her as she crossed the lobby.
“Stool the elevator!” he shouted, although it sounded more like an order than a request.
A woman yelling at someone | Source: Pexels
A woman yelling at someone | Source: Pexels
Pleased, I kept the doors open, prepared for a confrontation.
He reached the threshold and looked me up and down. “Yes, you have to move. My stroller doesn’t fit with you standing there.”
“How do you say?” I said, in a low but firm voice.
A man staring at someone | Source: Pexels
A man staring at someone | Source: Pexels
He let out a strong and performative sigh. Of those who are ashamed.
“I have seven children climbing on me, and do you think I have to explain something to you? OUT! Wait for the next one.”
I turned completely to her, looking into her eyes. “No.”
A man looking defiantly at someone | Source: Pexels
A man looking defiantly at someone | Source: Pexels
“I’ve been up all day,” I added. “I’m going up, now. Is he going to come in or will he stay outside?”
His eyes opened slightly. It was clear that she was not used to resistance.
“Wow. What kind of man argues with a mother of seven children?”
A woman talking angry with someone | Source: Pexels
A woman talking angry with someone | Source: Pexels
“The kind of man whose deaf grandfather you punched out of an elevator,” I replied.
His face twisted with fury. “Idiot! How dare you!”
The doors began to close. I smiled and raised my hand to greet her.
But then two figures rushed past her. They entered the elevator just before the doors closed.
A frightened woman | Source: Pexels
A frightened woman | Source: Pexels
I pointed my head at the Martínez couple of 5B.
“Five floor?” I asked, with my finger on the panel.
“Please,” said Mrs. Martinez, exchanging glances with her husband. Then, with a slight smile: “Thank you.”
A man looking sideways at something | Source: Pexels
A man looking sideways at something | Source: Pexels
“For not letting him swep you,” Mr. Martinez replied. “He does it all the time.”
“It was time for someone to stand firm,” Ms. Martinez added. “Last week he made Mrs. Chen, from 3C, wait with the shopping cart full of shopping because ‘her children couldn’t wait for another elevator’.”
Then we went up in a comfortable silence.
A man smiling weakly | Source: Pexels
A man smiling weakly | Source: Pexels
When I went down to my floor, they both greeted me with a gesture of approval.
But the story didn’t end there.
That night, after seeing how Grandpa was and making sure he was comfortable, I sat in front of the laptop. I opened the building community forum, a place normally reserved for maintenance requests and lost and found posts.
A laptop on a table | Source: Pexels
A laptop on a table | Source: Pexels
I uploaded my grandfather’s security pictures. I didn’t add captions or comments. Just a title: “That’s not how we treat our elders.”
After an hour, the forum lit up. I was showered with the comments:
“I can’t believe I did that!”
“Poor grandfather. Is it okay?”
A man using a laptop | Source: Pexels
A man using a laptop | Source: Pexels
“It made my 5-year-old son cry when he accidentally hit his cart,” said another person.
“I’ve been avoiding the elevator every time I see her coming.”
The stories happened. Not only about her, but about how helpless everyone had felt. How the building had become a place of anxiety for some, all because of a person who refused to show basic courtesy.
A woman looking at someone | Source: Pexels
A woman looking at someone | Source: Pexels
On the weekend, the woman was publicly embarrassed, not with cruelty, but with an undeniable truth.
Security recordings don’t lie, and neither did the dozens of similar experiences shared by our neighbors.
On Monday morning, I saw her waiting quietly in the lobby like everyone else. When the elevator arrived, he stepped aside to let an elderly couple in first.
An elderly couple | Source: Pexels
An elderly couple | Source: Pexels
His children were still restless, but they had lowered the volume considerably.
When he saw me, he quickly looked down. There was no confrontation or exchange of words. It was just a silent adcognition that the rules had changed.
After that, the building looked different. Somehow, lighter.
The entrance to an apartment building | Source: Pexels
The entrance to an apartment building | Source: Pexels
“Your grandfather told me what happened,” my neighbor Susan said when we crossed paths in the mailboxes. “He wrote it on his phone. He said you defended him.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Anyone would have done it.”
“But they didn’t,” she said. “You did it.”
Mailboxes in an apartment building | Source: Pexels
Mailboxes in an apartment building | Source: Pexels
A week later, I found a gift basket in front of my door with a bottle of champagne and some appetizers.
The card said, “From your grateful neighbors. Thank you for restoring civility in the building.”
It wasn’t really about winning or revenge. It was about restoring balance, reminding someone that we all share this space and that courtesy is not optional.
A gift basket | Source: Pexels
A gift basket | Source: Pexels
And all that was needed was a tired man and a firm “No”.
Sometimes that’s all thugs need: someone willing to stand firm.
