The Bank's Mistake, My Payback Time

It was almost New Year. I had just withdrawn money from the bank when I noticed that the amount on my passbook didn't match the cash in my hand.

I counted carefully—my passbook showed a different figure than the five thousand dollars I was holding. Frustrated, I turned and went back to the counter to find the teller who had handled my transaction.

Clutching the receipt, I tried to be polite. "Excuse me, I think there might be a mistake with this transaction."

Instantly, she snapped, pointing her finger at my nose. "Don't you know that once you leave the counter, we are not responsible for any discrepancies?"

I waved my hands, trying to explain. "No, wait, look again. I clearly withdrew five thousand dollars, but on my passbook, it shows…"

She cut me off impatiently. "When you filled out the form, it was all right there. Once you leave the counter, it's not our problem. You signed the form yourself, confirming everything. Are we supposed to correct it every time someone claims a mistake after leaving the bank?"

I froze.

No wonder she kept repeating that the bank isn't responsible after leaving the counter.

She thought I had come back to ask for more money. What I was really trying to explain was simple: I withdrew five thousand, yet my passbook showed that I deposited five thousand.

"Why are you still standing there? Can't understand plain English?" Jessie Cartney shouted, all while meticulously filing her nails. "There's a line behind you, you uncultured—"

Even the security guards in the hall had come over, drawn by her voice.

I couldn't help but laugh—truly, I did.

In all my years, I had never seen someone rush to hand money to a bank, only to be shooed out with a broom.

I wasn't ready to give up. I nudged the receipt toward the glass counter.

"Number 035. Let me confirm one last time. If the bank makes an operational error, and the amount is wrong, does that still count as your 'not responsible once I leave the counter' rule?"

Jessie didn't even glance at the slip. She didn't lift her eyelids.

"You're a broken record, huh? Can't see the big letters on the wall? Once you leave this counter, whatever money you have—or don't have—is your problem. That's the rule, got it? The rule!"

She deliberately emphasized the word rule, her expression arrogant as if she owned the bank herself.

I took a deep breath and nodded.

"Fine. But remember, you said that. Rules are rigid. People aren’t. I'll follow your rule."

I folded the receipt neatly and slipped it into my pocket.

Jessie snorted.

"Poor people and their fuss. Security, keep an eye on her. Don't let her make a scene again."

A guard shoved me forward.

"Move along, don't block the way."

I walked out of the banking hall, letting the shove carry me.

Once outside, I glanced down at the black bag in my hand. Inside was five thousand dollars in cash, freshly withdrawn from the vault.

I took out my passbook and flipped to the last page.

The bold print from the bank's printer stared back clearly:

Deposit: 5,000.00 dollars

Balance: 15,000.00 dollars

I originally had ten thousand in the account. I had come to withdraw five thousand.

But that idiot Jessie had turned my withdrawal into a deposit.

I glanced back at the bank's entrance, then at the metal plaque displayed prominently that said, "Cash must be counted on the spot; the bank is not responsible once you leave the counter."

I used to think those words were harsh. Now? They were the cutest thing in the world.

If you insist on rules, fine. I'll play by your rules—carefully.

I didn't go straight home.

At a time like this, going home to sleep would be pure foolishness.