We walked to a café downtown. It was the kind of place with white tile, wooden counters, quiet chatters, and people typing on laptops. We sat by the window. The waitress delivered a tall mug of whipped-cream-topped hot chocolate. Ben’s face lit up—he reached in, took a sip, got cream on his nose, giggled.
Then, a voice: “Can’t you control him?”
I froze. A man clicked his tongue. “Kids these days.”
The woman at his table added, “Some people just don’t belong in places like this.”
Ben’s smile faded. He whispered, “Grandma… did we do something bad?”
Tears threatened my eyes. “No, love. Some people just don’t know how to be kind.”
Then the waitress came over. In a quiet, firm voice she said, “Ma’am, maybe you’d be more comfortable outside. There’s a bench across the street.”
We weren’t doing anything wrong. But the message was clear: she wanted us gone.
I looked toward Ben, saw his little hands gripping the table, lower lip trembling.
“Let’s go,” I whispered.
But then he caught my eye. “No, Grandma. We can’t leave.”
He wasn’t ready. Something told me that wasn’t the end.
He pointed behind me, staring at the waitress. He said, “She has the same spot.”
“The same what, honey?” I asked.
He pointed to her cheek, just under her eye. A birthmark. The same tiny brown spot he had.
My heart pounded. She walked back with the check. I tried to speak normally. “We’re leaving… Ben noticed your mark, that’s why he’s staring.”
She glanced at him. Her eyes flickered with something—puzzlement, recognition, sorrow.
She walked away. Outside, cold kissed our faces. I knelt to zip Ben’s coat, when I heard her footsteps.
“Ma’am?”
She came close, trembling.
“Could we talk? Alone?”
I looked at Ben, then back at her.
“Stay here, sweetie,” I told him.
She said—her voice shaky—“I’m sorry. That wasn’t right.”
I nodded.
She asked, “Is he your biological grandson?”
My throat closed up.
“No. He’s adopted. His parents died last year. I’m raising him.”
Her eyes filled. She asked, “Is his birthday September 11th?”
I whispered, “Yes.”
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