Chapter 1: The Refund Queen

Recently, there’s been a customer ID that keeps placing huge orders for my priciest strawberry seedlings at my online shop.

At first, I was pumped. Orders like that can make or break your season. Rent was due in two weeks, and my checking account was already flirting with zero. But the more I saw that name, the more my gut twisted. Something about it just felt wrong—like a perfect sale hiding a trap.

As soon as she gets the goods, she demands a refund—without returning a single thing.

It’s always the same. Delivery notification pops up, and before I can even celebrate, there’s the refund request. Rinse, repeat. Same customer, same scam.

When I ask her for proof the seedlings are bad, she sends a photo of her empty palm.

She doesn’t even try to fake it. Just a bare hand, nothing but wrinkles and attitude. I can almost hear the sarcasm through the pixels. Like she was chewing gum and rolling her eyes at the same time.

"I planted them all and they died. The stuff’s gone already—how am I supposed to take a picture of it?"

Her texts drip with attitude, like I’m the one making her life harder. I picture her in her kitchen, phone in hand, rolling her eyes at how dumb I must be.

I ask her to send the seedlings back, but she refuses flat out.

Her answer is so wild I have to reread it. Who even does that?

"They’re all planted, there’s nothing left to send back. You want the dirt?"

The audacity. I bet she’s cackling as she types, loving every second of this mess.

Finally, I ask her: If my seedlings are so awful, why do you keep buying thousands of dollars’ worth every time?

I mean, who keeps buying the same ‘bad’ stuff unless they’re running a game? My patience is shot.

She just scoffs even harder.

I can practically hear her snort, that smug cackle some folks get when they think they’ve won.

"What I buy, how much I buy, and whether I buy at all—that’s my business. If you don’t like it, close your shop."

At that point, my anger is a physical thing. It’s crawling up my spine, hot and electric. My hands tremble so bad I have to set the phone down.

Realizing she’s never going to play fair, I pull up her shipping address from the backend.

The cursor blinks next to her info. I just stare at it for a second. I know it’s reckless, but what else am I supposed to do? Some people only understand consequences up close.

That night, I pack a duffel and get ready to go to her town…

A cold wind rattles the window as I stuff clothes in my bag. Rent, bills, her smug laugh—they all echo in my head. I grab my charger and a notebook. I’m not coming back empty-handed.

1

She wants a refund but won’t return the goods. That’s straight-up robbery!

I slam my fist on the desk. The mug rattled, splashing coffee onto a stack of overdue bills. I barely noticed. My jaw aches from clenching so hard. My roommate, Mark, pokes his head in. "Dude, you good?" He lingers, eyes flicking from me to the screen, eyebrow raised. I wave him off, still glaring at the refund request. He shrugs and leaves, but not before eyeing the chaos on my desk.

I glare at the refund request, teeth grinding so hard my head throbs.

It’s after midnight. The apartment’s dead quiet except for the fridge humming and a siren wailing somewhere on Main. Fury hammers in my chest.

In the last month, a customer named “HappyNana44” has placed five big orders for pricey strawberry seedlings.

At first, the username made me laugh—maybe some grandma with a green thumb. Now, it’s a curse.

Every time she gets the goods, she immediately applies for a refund.

I started expecting it, like waiting for a trap to snap after every sale.

The excuse is always the same: “The seedlings all died.”

She doesn’t even try to switch it up. She’s got her script, and she’s sticking to it.

But she never sends anything back.

No returns, no photos, nothing. Just vanishes.

And the platform always sides with the buyer.

I’ve scoured the terms and conditions more times than I want to admit. It’s always: "The customer is always right."

As soon as she gets customer service involved, the refund’s a done deal.

No questions. Like they’re scared she’ll leave a one-star review.

I can only watch as Nana walks away with both my money and my seedlings.

It’s daylight robbery, and I can’t do a damn thing but watch the numbers bleed red.

Once she saw how easy it was, Nana stopped pretending. She just says there’s a quality issue and calls the platform.

She’s cracked the code. Once the mask drops, there’s no going back.

She gets high-end seedlings for free—never pays a cent.

It’s a one-woman heist, and the platform’s rolling out the red carpet.

I tried blocking her, but she just pops up with a new account every time.

New email, same address. Like playing whack-a-mole with no mallet.

Thanks to Nana, I’m down over ten grand.

Ten thousand. I do the math: that’s three months’ rent, a used car, a year of groceries if I pinch every penny. All gone.

I can’t swallow it. I follow the breadcrumbs, digging into Nana’s shopping history.

I open my laptop’s second screen, scanning her order trail like a detective piecing together a heist. Coffee cold, I start scribbling notes.

Turns out, she’s done so many shady refunds the platform ranks her as a low-level user.

She’s flagged, but they still let her shop. Of course.

I post in some e-commerce groups, and suddenly everyone’s got a Nana horror story.

The group chat blows up. "That lady hit my candle store too!" "She’s notorious around here," someone adds.

Nana wasn’t always this greedy.

Old-timers say she used to buy just small stuff. Nothing wild. She worked her way up the refund ladder.

I scroll through the refund records other sellers share, piecing it all together.

My screen’s filled with screenshots—petty refunds for gloves, planters, soil. Every time, a different excuse. The pattern is ugly and obvious.

A year ago, Nana got her first refund for a broken bucket. After that, she realized how easy it was to get things for free.

It started with pennies. She must’ve turned that first win over in her mind, realizing how simple it was. Down the slippery slope she went.

First little things, then dozens, then hundreds. It’s like watching someone go from shoplifting candy to robbing a bank.

Now she’s freeloading thousands from my shop, one hit at a time.

She’s built herself a little empire off my losses. Some people hustle. She hustles dirty.

I ask the platform for help, but they won’t risk annoying buyers to protect sellers.

I get a copy-paste reply from support. It’s all empty apologies. "We value all users equally"—which means buyers run the show.

So, nothing changes.

I stare at the chat log, my faith in customer service circling the drain.

But I can’t let this go. Even getting half back would be something.

Maybe I could settle for her admitting what she’s done. Pride’s cheap these days.

I rack my brain for a way to get Nana to return the seedlings or some of the money.

A notebook fills with bad ideas and crossed-out plans. Nothing fits.

When I call her, I barely get a word out.

My palms are slick as I dial her number. I try to picture her face, but all I get is the voice.

"Hello, I’m the owner of the seed shop, about your refund—"

She cuts me off before I can finish.

"Refund what! All your seedlings rotted as soon as I planted them!"

Her voice is like sandpaper over a megaphone—raw, sharp, and grating. I flinch back from the phone.

She doesn’t stop. Every word is an accusation, like I’m the scammer.

"You crooked seller, selling fake goods! And you still have the nerve to ask for money!"

I want to yell, but I count to three and swallow it down.

I keep it calm. "All our seedlings have quality inspection certificates. If you’re not satisfied, you can return them for a refund."

I sound just like my dad when he tried not to lose it with telemarketers.

"Why don’t you refund your own mother, you scam artist!" she yells, firing off curses like a machine gun.

It’s nonstop—a string of insults I haven’t heard since middle school.

"I’ve farmed for thirty years, and you little brat think you can teach me? Sellers like you ought to be struck by lightning, and have a kid born without a conscience!"

I’m stunned. The curses are so personal, so nasty, it almost makes me laugh. Almost.

On the other end, I hear a wet, hacking sound, like she’s spitting straight at the receiver.

For a second, I just stare at the phone. Who does that?

I take a breath. "If you keep making malicious refund claims, I’ll have to take legal action."

It sounds hollow, but I have to say it. At least it’s something.

"Oh, I’m so scared!" she jeers, full of herself.

I can picture her smirking, loving every second of her power trip.

"Go ahead and sue! Do you even know where I live? I’ll have someone deal with you, you little punk!"

That line makes my skin crawl. She sounds genuinely dangerous, not just loud.

Suddenly, I hear dogs barking in the background. She brings the phone close so I can hear every snarl.

Her voice drops. "Hear that? I have three German Shepherds at home. If you dare show up, I’ll set them on you!"

Three German Shepherds? Great. Like I needed another reason to hate this woman.

The barking gets louder, like she’s holding the phone right to their mouths. I imagine muddy paws, teeth bared. Not exactly a welcome wagon.

She’s getting more worked up, louder by the second.

"Let me tell you, I’ve scammed so many shops and never lost! The platform always sides with buyers—what can you do to me?"

Her bragging is almost joyful. Not a hint of shame.

She drops her voice, showing off like she’s proud of it.

"Just last week, I got 500 strawberry seedlings for free. That shop’s about to go under, haha!"

I picture another seller somewhere, staring at their empty balance. My stomach twists for us both.

Finally, she threatens:

"If you dare call again, I’ll use a new account every day to leave bad reviews until your shop closes down!"

My anger is a physical thing. It’s crawling up my spine, hot and electric. My hands tremble so bad I have to set the phone down.

Beep, beep, beep—

The busy tone rings out. My hand is slick with sweat as I grip the hot phone.

I let the phone drop onto the desk. My heart’s racing, and my stomach’s in knots. I wipe my hand on my jeans, trying to steady my breathing.

I should’ve known what kind of person she was when I realized she was pulling refund scams.

But I wanted to believe there was some misunderstanding. That maybe she’d see reason.

Yet I naively tried to reason with her.

I was raised to give folks the benefit of the doubt. Guess not everyone deserves it.

You can’t negotiate with people like this.

Some people only understand one language: consequences.

Luckily, I recorded the call. Otherwise, I’d have been cursed out for nothing.

I save the audio file, labeling it "Nana Threats"—insurance, just in case.

Nana’s call made things clear for me.

My anger solidifies into resolve. If she’s this bold over the phone, she’s gotten away with too much for too long.

Since she’s so shameless, I have nothing to fear.

The worst she can do is tank my online ratings. So what? I’m already on the edge.

Worst case, I’ll just quit. This lousy online shop doesn’t make much anyway, and I still have to put up with abuse.

My apartment’s small, but it’s mine. I can always find another gig. The only thing I lose is pride.

If the shop closes, so be it. I don’t rely on selling seedlings to make a living.

It started as a side hustle. Maybe it’s time to find a new one.

It really feels like I’m losing money and being treated like a doormat.

There’s a phrase my mom always used: "Don’t let folks walk all over you." That echoes in my head now.

The more I think about it, the angrier I get. I stare at her shipping address on the screen.

I scroll over her address—rural Ohio. Not exactly next door, but not impossible.

With a cold laugh, I decide—if that’s how it is, let’s meet face to face.

I zip up my jacket, pull out my duffel, and tell Mark, "I’m taking a trip. Might be gone a day or two." He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t ask questions. I head out into the chill, heart pounding with something that feels almost like hope.