I thought it was terrible enough when the lady in our apartment building handled it like her kingdom—seven screaming kids, pushing trolleys, barking at people. She kicked my deaf grandpa off the elevator, and something broke. I watched the tape, and it ignited. She didn’t realize it, but her reign was ending.
I usually stay quiet and avoid conflict, but the lady in our building drove me crazy.
She ran the lobby like she owned it. Not classily, but like a hurricane that demanded everyone leave her path.
And her kids? Seven 6- to 12-year-olds.
Not tiny kids who might be excused for ignorance. These youngsters were old enough to behave yet chose mayhem.
Move it! If someone got in her way, she snapped. “Coming through!”
I first spotted her while waiting for the mail.
Her kids filled the lobby, voices bouncing off the walls like ping-pong balls and shoes shrieking on the tile floor.
“Evan! Come down!” She yelled, ignoring the child climbing the beautiful column. “Chloe, stop pulling your brother’s hair!”
She never halted their conduct. Just shouted about it, as if revealing their disarray absolved her.
In the parking lot, she had pushed shopping carts aside since then.
I saw her summon people from elevators like her own shuttle. Most people accepted it. Probably easier than fighting.
Tuesday arrived.
My granddad moved in when my grandma died.
He could buy for groceries alone at 82. He missed stuff, particularly with background noise, despite his hearing aids.
I worked late that night, but security footage won’t lie.
The shaky footage showed Grandpa entering the elevator before she arrived.
She pushed her stroller to the elevator while her kids pushed and fought behind her. She yelled as usual, but the video was silent.
Grandpa hit the button to hold the doors for her, but not enough.
She commanded, “Out,” clearly pointing to the lobby.
Grandpa seemed confused on the quiet video.
He pointed to the panel to justify his climb.
“OUT!” Sharper, she mouthed, flailing her hand like a dog.
My grandpa exited the elevator—this still hurts.
He stood there holding his shopping bag like it was all he had, looking little and forlorn as the mother and her kids passed him.
His subtle heartbreak stance got me. Something changed me that day. A secret commitment emerged: I’ll stop this!
Step ahead two weeks.
I had just ended a 12-hour hospital shift. My scrubs adhered to my skin and my shoes squeezed my swollen feet.
I just wanted to wash and sleep at home.
The municipal bus stopped abruptly in front of me.
The doors opened, and I heard the ruckus before seeing them.
“Mom! Dylan struck me again!”
I did not! She lied!
“My head hurts! Perhaps I need sutures!”
Riley, nobody gets stitches. Just a bump.”
She was stretched over two chairs, phone in hand, scarcely glancing up at the chaos.
Her kids used the bus as a playground, climbing poles, hanging from handles, and throwing food wrappers.
One girl, I guessed Riley, was clutching her forehead and screaming over a little red mark on her head.
Finally, the middle-aged bus driver with saintly patience spoke out.
Please have your kids sit down, madam. Standing as the bus moves is unsafe, he added.
Excuse me? Her voice could break glass. Do you have seven kids? No? Don’t tell me how to raise mine!”
In the back, I silently watched and took it all in.
Every yell and entitled phrase fed me. I felt stress as our building appeared.
Tonight was it. I knew.
Reaching the elevator first, I punched the button and entered.
My exhausted self—dark bags under my eyes, wrinkled scrubs, flat hair from my surgical cap—reflected on the brushed metal doors.
Chaos erupted in the lobby behind me. Kids followed the lady across the floor like ducklings.
As if demanding, she said, “Hold that elevator!”
I prepared for a standoff by opening the doors.
She sized me up at the entrance. You must move. Your presence doesn’t suit my stroller.”
I stayed put.
Excuse me? My voice was low yet steady.
Her sigh was loud and theatrical. Kind designed to humiliate.
“You think I need to explain myself when seven kids are climbing all over me? Get out! Take the next.”
I locked eyes with her. “No.”
“I’ve been on my feet all day,” I said. “I’m ascending. In or out?”
Her eyes grew. She wasn’t accustomed to resistance.
“Wow. What type of guy bickers with a mother of seven?
I answered, “The kind whose deaf grandpa you bullied out of an elevator.”
Her face twisted in fury. You jerk! How dare you!
Closing doors. I waved and grinned.
However, two figures passed her. They entered the elevator before it closed.
I nodded to 5B’s Delgados.
“Floor five?” Finger lingering over panel, I asked.
“Please,” Mrs. Delgado murmured, looking at her husband. A little smile: “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not letting her steamroll you,” Mr. Delgado replied. “She always does this.”
“It’s about time someone stood their ground,” Mrs. Delgado said. Last week, she had Mrs. Lin from 3C wait with a full cart of groceries because ‘her kids couldn’t possibly wait for another elevator.’
We rode up quietly thereafter.
When I left my floor, they nodded in approval.
But the narrative continued.
After checking on Grandpa, I sat at my laptop that night. I checked the building’s community forum, normally for maintenance and lost-and-found.
My grandfather’s security footage was uploaded. I left captions and comments off. Title only: “This isn’t how we treat our elders.”
Within an hour, the forum exploded. Comments flooded in:
I can’t believe she did that!
Your poor granddad. Is he okay?
“She made my 5-year-old cry when he accidentally bumped her cart,” a neighbor wrote.
“I avoid the elevator whenever she comes.”
Story after story appeared. Everyone felt powerless, not just her. The building has become a source of concern for some because of one person’s disrespect.
The weekend saw the lady publicly called out—not meanly, but honestly.
Neither security video nor our neighbors’ hundreds of similar tales lied.
I spotted her silently waiting in the lobby Monday morning with everyone else. She retreated to enable an elderly couple board the elevator.
Her kids still fidgeted but were silent.
She glanced aside swiftly at me. No argument. Just a quiet acknowledgement of change.
Then the building felt different. Somewhat lighter.
“Your grandfather told me what happened,” my neighbor Lila remarked at the mailboxes. “He typed it on his phone. Said you defended him.”
I shrugged. “Anyone would.”
“But they didn’t,” she said. “You did.”
A week later, a gift box with champagne and nibbles was at my door.
From your thankful neighbors. You restored decorum in the building.”
Win or get even wasn’t the objective. It was about restoring equilibrium and reminding someone that politeness is required in this area.
It just needed one exhausted man and one strong “No.”
Bullies sometimes just require a defender.
