Last Wednesday marked what would’ve been my grandparents’ 50th anniversary. My grandfather passed two years ago, but my grandmother Doris honored the day as always—dressing in the blouse and brooch he’d gifted her, and dining at their favorite restaurant. Alone, she quietly ordered their usual meal and tipped what she could afford.
Her waitress, Jessica, mocked her for dining alone and sneered at her “tiny” tip. Humiliated, my grandmother walked home in tears.
The next day, she told me what happened. I was heartbroken—and determined to ensure Jessica understood the pain she caused. So, I returned to the restaurant, bringing my photographer friend. We dressed elegantly and ordered generously—so Jessica would expect a generous tip.
Instead, I handed her an envelope filled with napkins inscribed: “You should be ashamed.” “She’s not a wallet; she’s a widow.” I calmly told her the full story—without anger, only truth.
Jessica didn’t smile when she walked away. She may never change—but she can no longer claim she didn’t know.
