The curse of being "a good girl"

We took our condo building off the market on June 16. It took Aaron, the real estate agent, until Saturday to return the unit owners' keys. TWENTY FIVE DAYS.

First he just emailed me the combination to the lock box with the owners' keys within. How's that for security? I pointed out to him what he should have realized on his own: these are condominiums, it's not an apartment building. I'm not a landlady, I have no right to anyone's keys.

Days go by. No response to my email. So I text. And email again. No response.

Then Aaron offered to meet me somewhere, to hand me the keys. That will be easier for him, you see. All he'll have to do is hop out of his car while it's still running.

No. I reiterate that the unit owners surrendered their keys to HIM, so HE must be the one to return them. I'm not taking custody of anyone's keys. He knows I'm right. This is just so inconvenient for him!

Days go by. No response to my email. So I text. And email again. And phone.

Finally, Saturday Aaron did what he should have done on June 17. He came, got his lock box, and returned the unit owners' keys. He did all this without ever returning my call.

Today I called the managing agent of his office. I explained how displeased I was with the way our realtor treated the unit owners' security. The cavalier way he handled the deconversion from the word "go." I was venting, yes, but it was more than that.

In this situation, I am responsible for the security of the people who live here. He was way too willing to compromise that for his own convenience. And I can't emphasize this enough: this was not his first misstep. Nor even his second. I felt like I had to protect his future clients from his dismissive approach to an important business.

His boss told me that there would be "a course correction" and that he was asking to me to "read between the lines" when he said he was "looking for a new position for Aaron." 

Then I felt guilty. Isn't that stupid? If I hadn't spoken up, I would have been seething with resentment. I do speak up, and I'm racked with guilt. I can't help it. I was born in the 1950s. I'm supposed to be a good girl.