Concierge Watson sneers at a smelly traveler and refuses him a room at the luxury Grand Lumière Hotel. When the traveler returns looking dapper, Watson realizes his mistake could cost him more than just his job.
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Rain pelted the windows of the Grand Lumière Hotel, but that didn’t stop the lobby’s chandeliers from gleaming. The opulent atmosphere could never be overshadowed by the weather.
The hotel’s concierge, Mr. Watson, stood ramrod straight behind the polished marble reception desk.
His keen eyes scanned the lobby, ensuring every detail met the exacting standards of the five-star establishment. Nothing was out of place… until…
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The doors swung open, letting in a gust of wind and a few pelts of rain into the hardwood floors. But it was the bedraggled figure that made Mr. Watson wrinkle his nose.
A man stumbled toward the desk, leaving muddy footprints in his wake.
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His clothes were soaked through and hung limply from his frame. His scraggly beard as well as the stench of wet dog and stale cigarettes told the concierge that he hadn’t washed in days.
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Mr. Watson’s nose wrinkled further. “May I help you?” he asked in a clipped and cold tone.
The man looked up. “Please,” he croaked weakly, “I need a room for the night. My car broke down a few miles back, and I’ve been walking in this downpour for hours.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir,” Mr. Watson shook his head. “We have no vacancies at the moment.”
“But surely there must be something. I can pay whatever the rate is. I just need a place to sleep and dry off.”
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“As I said,” Mr. Watson repeated, his lip curling, “we have no rooms available for someone in your… condition. Perhaps you might try the motel down by the highway. I’m sure their standards would be more… accommodating.”
The man’s face fell and his shoulders slumped. But for a small second, anger flashed in his eyes. “I see,” he said quietly. “Thank you for your time.”
He turned and trudged back toward the doors.
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Mr. Watson watched him go, then called for a bellhop. “Call maintenance to clean this up,” he ordered, gesturing to the muddy footprints. “We can’t have the lobby looking like a pigsty.”
As the young bellhop hurried to comply, Mr. Watson smiled, satisfied about keeping that dirty man away from his hotel.
But his actions would soon come back to haunt him.
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***
An hour later, the lobby doors swung open once more. Mr. Watson looked up, ready to greet another guest with his practiced smile.
To his surprise, a well-dressed man strode confidently toward the desk. His suit was impeccably tailored, his shoes shone with a mirror-like gleam, and his salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed.
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It took Mr. Watson a moment to recognize the face beneath the expertly trimmed beard. His eyes widened in shock as he realized it was the same man he had turned away earlier.
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The man approached the desk with a slight smile playing on his lips. “Good evening,” he said smoothly. “I’d like a room for the night, please.”
Mr. Watson swallowed hard. “Of course, sir,” he managed to say. “May I ask what happened to… your previous attire?”
“Ah, yes,” the man chuckled. “I found a truck stop down the road with showers and a small clothing shop. Amazing what a little soap and a clean suit can do, isn’t it?”
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Mr. Watson nodded stiffly, looking away, and tapped at his computer in search of an available room. “We have a standard room on the third floor,” he said.
“That will do nicely,” the man replied.
As Mr. Watson processed the reservation, he couldn’t help but add, “I must say, sir, you clean up rather well. It’s like night and day.”
“Yes, well, appearances can be deceiving, can’t they?”
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Mr. Watson handed over the key card and nodded, pursing his lips. “Indeed they can. Enjoy your stay, Mr…?”
“Bloomington,” the man supplied. “Thank you, I’m sure I will.”
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Mr. Bloomington walked away, and Mr. Watson watched. There was a tightening in his chest that he couldn’t explain… as if he had made a mistake.
But he wouldn’t apologize. His job was to maintain the cleanliness, prestige, and reputation of the hotel, so all their clients had to, at least, look the part.
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Still, throughout Mr. Bloomington’s stay, Mr. Watson went out of his way to avoid the man. When forced to interact, he was curt and dismissive.
On the third day of Mr. Bloomington’s stay, Mr. Watson was overseeing the breakfast service in the hotel’s elegant dining room.
He moved from table to table to ensure each guest was satisfied with their meal and experience. As he approached Mr. Bloomington’s table, he overheard a conversation that made his blood run cold.
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“Yes, that’s right,” Mr. Bloomington was saying into his phone. “I’ve been here for three days now, observing operations incognito. I think I’ve seen enough to make some necessary changes.”
Mr. Watson froze. Incognito? Changes? Who exactly was this Mr. Bloomington?
As if sensing his presence, Mr. Bloomington looked up and met Mr. Watson’s shocked gaze. He smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes.
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“Ah, Mr. Watson,” he said smoothly. “Just the man I wanted to see. Would you join me for a moment?”
His heart began racing at the request. It was said with such authority that the tightening in his chest happened, and a hint of intuition hit his thoughts.
Was Mr. Bloomington more important than the concierge imagined?
Numbly, Mr. Watson sank into the chair across from Mr. Bloomington. The man leaned forward and started speaking in a low but firm voice.
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“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he said. “My first name is Charles, but you can keep calling me Mr. Bloomington. I recently acquired this hotel chain, and I’ve been visiting each property to assess their operations firsthand.”
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The color drained from Mr. Watson’s face as the full impact of his actions over the past few days hit him. “You’re… you’re the new owner?” he stammered.
Mr. Bloomington nodded gravely. “That’s correct, and the CEO. And I must say, Mr. Watson, I’ve been less than impressed with what I’ve observed here, particularly concerning your treatment of guests you deem… unworthy.”
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Mr. Watson opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. He sat there, fish-mouthed and pale, as Mr. Bloomington continued.
“A hotel’s primary function is to provide hospitality to all its guests, regardless of their appearance or circumstances. Your behavior has been not only unprofessional but cruel. Is this really the image we want to project to our clientele?”
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“No, sir,” Mr. Watson whispered, chastened. “It’s not.”
The new CEO stood and nodded to the side. “Follow me.”
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***
Minutes later, Mr. Watson stood in Mr. Bloomington’s new temporary office, which was formerly the hotel manager’s space.
The CEO sat behind the desk, and his fingers drummed against the polished, sleek hardwood surface.
“Mr. Watson,” he began, “I hope you understand the gravity of your actions. This hotel has always prided itself on providing exceptional service to all our guests. Your behavior over the past few days has fallen far short of that standard.”
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Mr. Watson nodded, but couldn’t speak. He was ready for the inevitable: losing his job, which he’d held for over 15 years.
“I’m glad you recognize that. Now, the question is, what are we going to do about it?”
“Sir?” Mr. Watson looked up, surprised.
“I believe in second chances, Mr. Watson. More importantly, I believe this experience can be a valuable lesson not just for you, but for our entire staff. Are you willing to learn from this and help implement changes to ensure it never happens again?”
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“Yes, sir,” Mr. Watson said, breathless as relief flooded through him. “Absolutely. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.”
“Good.,” the new CEO nodded. “Then here’s what we’re going to do…”
Over the next few weeks, the Grand Lumière Hotel transformed. New policies were put in place that required equal treatment for all guests, regardless of appearance.
If they could pay, they could have a room.
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Hoping to prove his worth, Mr. Watson developed a training program to help staff recognize and overcome their biases.
Furthermore, to work on himself, the concierge began volunteering at a local homeless shelter.
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Slowly but surely, the atmosphere in the hotel began to change. Guests from all walks of life were welcomed with genuine warmth and respect.
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The staff worked together more cohesively since their workplace no longer seemed to value certain people over others.
But Mr. Watson’s new outlook on his job was yet to be tested.
***
One rainy evening, much like the night that had started it all, the concierge stood at his familiar post behind the reception desk.
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The doors swung open, and a bedraggled traveler entered, seeking shelter from the storm.
For a second, Mr. Watson’s old instincts surfaced, but he schooled himself and adopted a warm smile. “Welcome to the Grand Lumière,” he said kindly. “How may we assist you this evening?”
As he helped the grateful guest check in, Mr. Watson caught Mr. Bloomington’s eye across the lobby.
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The CEO nodded approvingly.
Mr. Watson let out a small sigh and continued working. Times had changed at the Grand Lumière Hotel, and he was glad not to have wasted his second chance.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
The Mothers of a Couple Turned Thanksgiving Into a Living Hell for Their Newlywed Kids — Story of the Day
Two stubborn mothers arrive at Thanksgiving with their own plans, sparking a rivalry that fills the kitchen with smoke and tension. As surprises unfold, the family faces one unforgettable holiday where tempers flare, loyalties are tested, and a last-minute twist reminds them of what truly matters.
Thick, dark smoke swirled through the house, making it hard to breathe. Kira coughed, struggling to take in air as she pressed her hand over her mouth. Her other hand protectively rested on her pregnant belly, and she glanced at Michael with wide, anxious eyes.
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They moved cautiously toward the kitchen, where the thickest smoke seemed to gather. There, like two children caught in the act, stood Margaret and Rebecca, each looking as startled as the other.
Their faces were smudged with black soot, their eyes wide and guilty, while the oven door hung open, revealing a turkey charred beyond recognition.
“What is going on here?!” Michael yelled, his eyes darting from his mother to his mother-in-law, then to the smoky kitchen around them.
“This old woman—” Rebecca started, pointing an accusing finger at Margaret.
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“Old woman? Look who’s talking!” Margaret interrupted, her voice sharp as she crossed her arms.
Rebecca glared. “If you hadn’t barged in here—”
Margaret shot back, “Barged in? You’re the one who can’t cook!”
Their voices grew louder, words tumbling over each other, turning into a mess of jabs and shouts, each trying to talk over the other. Insults flew back and forth as if they’d forgotten anyone else was there.
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“Please, stop,” Kira whispered, clutching her belly, but they didn’t hear her.
Kira winced, feeling a sharp pain. “Stop! I’m in labor!” she yelled, her voice cutting through the chaos.
Both women froze, their faces stunned. Then, suddenly, the turkey burst into flames in the oven. Margaret and Rebecca shrieked, grabbing towels to fight the fire, while Kira moaned in pain, and Michael stood there, helpless, eyes wide in shock.
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One Week Earlier…
Margaret drove up to her daughter Kira’s house, feeling a spark of excitement. She held a fresh-baked pie on her lap, proud of the surprise she had planned.
Without calling ahead, she parked, stepped out, and walked up the front steps, smiling at the thought of catching them off guard. She knocked firmly, and before long, Michael opened the door, blinking in surprise.
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“Margaret… what are you doing here?” he asked, blinking in surprise.
“I decided to surprise you,” Margaret replied cheerfully, holding out a pie. “I thought a little treat might be nice.”
Michael took the pie, glancing back toward the kitchen, a hint of hesitation in his eyes. “Thanks, Margaret. Um, come on in.”
Margaret stepped inside, slipping off her coat, and instantly heard voices from the kitchen. She paused, recognizing the tone of Rebecca’s voice. With a raised brow, she followed the sound and found Kira seated, listening as Rebecca talked in her usual, commanding way.
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Rebecca was in mid-sentence, her words calm yet firm. “It’s important to establish good habits early. Babies need a routine, structure.”
Margaret felt a surge of irritation. “Why are you bothering my daughter?”
Rebecca looked over, blinking, and gave a tight smile. “I’m just giving her a little parenting advice.”
Margaret scoffed. “Parenting advice? And what do you know about raising kids?”
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Rebecca’s smile vanished. “Excuse me? Your daughter is married to my son, after all. I think that gives me some right to speak.”
“Oh, well, apologies accepted,” Margaret said with a dry laugh. “Though I recall your son didn’t even know how to wash his own dishes when he started dating Kira. I had to teach him myself!”
“How dare you!” Rebecca snapped.
Michael stepped into the kitchen. “Please, calm down. Let’s keep things peaceful, all right?”
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Kira gave a tired sigh. “There will be a little baby in this house soon,” she said softly. “We want a positive atmosphere here. No fighting.”
Margaret nodded, sitting down at the table. “You’re right, Kira. I want the best for this family. And, well, since we’re all here, even if some people weren’t exactly welcome…” Her gaze shifted pointedly to Rebecca. “Why don’t we talk about Thanksgiving? I’ll make my signature turkey—”
Rebecca cut her off. “Actually, I was going to suggest we celebrate at my place this year.”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “We celebrate at my place every year. It’s tradition.”
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Rebecca crossed her arms. “Traditions can change. I’m tired of sneezing from your silly cat.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow. “Better to have a cat than to celebrate in a snake’s den.”
Rebecca’s voice rose. “Who do you think you are?!”
Kira sighed heavily, covering her face with her hands. Michael gently patted her back. “I think we should celebrate here this year,” he offered quickly.
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“What?” Kira blurted, surprised.
“It’ll be fine, Kira. I’ll help you with the cooking,” Michael assured her.
Margaret shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“It’s better than all this arguing,” Michael replied.
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Kira nodded wearily. “He’s right. My head is pounding.”
Rebecca softened a little. “At least let me help. I can make the turkey.”
Kira sighed. “Fine.”
“But what about my signature turkey?” Margaret asked, hurt.
“Just this once, Mom,” Kira pleaded.
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Margaret paused, then gave in with a nod. “All right. For you, Kira,” she said, though a secret plan was already forming in her mind.
On Thanksgiving morning, Margaret rose early, her mind set on her plan. She was ready, having spent the entire week gathering the perfect ingredients. She packed up her turkey, herbs, spices, and everything needed to create her well-loved recipe.
She carefully tucked everything into a basket and drove over to Kira and Michael’s house. She knew Kira and Michael were out, so there was no time to waste.
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She reached their front door, taking out the spare key Kira had given her, meant only for emergencies. But today, Margaret felt this was important enough.
As she stepped inside, she paused, listening. A muffled noise drifted from the kitchen—pots clanging, cabinets closing. Margaret froze, her mind racing. Kira and Michael’s car wasn’t outside, so it wasn’t them.
Her eyes darted around, and she spotted an umbrella by the door. She grabbed it firmly and walked toward the kitchen, her heart pounding. She raised the umbrella as she peeked inside.
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There, bent over the counter, was Rebecca, elbows deep in turkey preparations. Margaret stopped short, barely holding back from swinging the umbrella.
“Are you completely insane?!” Rebecca shouted.
Margaret glared back. “I thought you were a burglar! What are you even doing here?”
Rebecca crossed her arms. “Kira gave me permission to cook here. But what are you doing here?”
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Margaret calmly set her basket on the counter. “I’m here to make my turkey.”
Rebecca scowled. “That wasn’t the deal.”
Margaret smirked. “What’s wrong? Afraid mine will taste better?”
Rebecca narrowed her eyes. “We’ll just have to see about that!”
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The kitchen was soon filled with the sounds of clanking pots and muttered complaints as Margaret and Rebecca worked side by side, each determined to make the best turkey.
They bumped elbows, snatched spices from each other’s reach, and exchanged pointed glares. Margaret sprinkled her herbs, pretending not to notice when Rebecca nudged her arm slightly, causing salt to spill. Rebecca hummed loudly, ignoring Margaret’s muttering about “rookie mistakes.”
Finally, Margaret finished her turkey, carefully placing it in the oven with a triumphant grin. She noticed the irritation in Rebecca’s eyes but ignored it, brushing her hands off as she headed to the living room to relax.
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After a while, a strange, burnt smell filled the air. Alarmed, Margaret rushed back to the kitchen, finding Rebecca desperately waving a towel, trying to fan away thick smoke billowing from the oven.
“What did you do?!” Margaret shouted, glaring at Rebecca.
Rebecca crossed her arms. “I didn’t do anything! Maybe you don’t know how to cook.”
Margaret stormed over to the oven, eyeing the controls. She noticed the temperature had been changed. “You did this! You’re trying to ruin my turkey!”
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Rebecca leaned in with a smirk. “I didn’t touch it. If it’s ruined, it’s your own fault!”
Margaret pulled open the oven door, only to be hit by a wave of thick, black smoke that poured out into the kitchen. She coughed and squinted, trying to see through the haze.
There, in the center of the oven, was her turkey—charred to a solid black lump. It looked nothing like the golden masterpiece she’d imagined.
Moments later, Michael and Kira walked through the door, both stopping short at the smoky mess. Instantly, Margaret and Rebecca began shouting, each blaming the other.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
But suddenly, Kira doubled over, clutching her belly. “Michael… it’s time!” she gasped, gripping his hand.
As Michael guided Kira to the car, Margaret watched, her heart pounding with worry for her daughter.
“Take a cab,” Michael said firmly. “I don’t want either of you stressing Kira out with more arguments.” With that, he helped Kira into the car, then got in and drove off without waiting for their reply.
Margaret huffed. “Well, we can take my car.”
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Rebecca nodded, looking tired herself. “Fine, let’s go.”
When they arrived at the hospital, the nurse informed them that only Michael was allowed in the room with Kira. Margaret and Rebecca found two chairs in the hallway and sat down, an uncomfortable silence stretching between them. They fidgeted, glanced around, and avoided each other’s eyes.
Finally, Margaret cleared her throat. “I think we need a truce,” she said quietly. “We almost ruined Thanksgiving, and if Kira hadn’t gone into labor… well, we would have ruined it for her.”
Rebecca nodded slowly, her face softening. “I agree. I don’t want my granddaughter thinking her grandma’s a nutcase.” She paused, then looked at Margaret directly. “So, peace?”
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Margaret nodded, extending her hand. “Peace,” she repeated.
Rebecca took her hand, giving it a firm shake.
Just then, Michael stepped out, smiling. “You can see your granddaughter now,” he said, motioning for them to come in.
Both women leapt up, hurrying to the room. Inside, Kira lay on the hospital bed, smiling, with a tiny bundle cradled in her arms.
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Rebecca leaned over, her eyes filling with tears. “She’s beautiful,” she said softly.
Margaret nodded, reaching out to touch the baby’s tiny hand. “And she looks like both of you,” she added with a smile.
A nurse walked in, carrying a tray. “Dinner for the new mom,” she announced, setting it on the bedside table. “Since it’s Thanksgiving, we went with a holiday-themed meal.” The tray held slices of turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy, and green peas.
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Margaret chuckled. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a new Thanksgiving tradition.”
“No way!” Kira exclaimed with a laugh. “I am not going through this every year!”
Everyone burst out laughing, and though it wasn’t the Thanksgiving they’d planned, it was the one they truly needed.
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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: When Rick returns to his small hometown after his grandmother’s passing, he inherits her old bookstore—a place full of memories from his childhood. But as he starts cleaning, he uncovers hidden secrets about his grandmother’s life that change everything. Read the full story here.
This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only. Share your story with us; maybe it will change someone’s life.
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