I’m 72, raising little Ben on my own since his mom — my daughter — died last year. I don’t take him out much — money’s tight, and my back gives me trouble — but that morning, he’d been so brave at the dentist that I promised him a hot chocolate. The place was small, spotless, and full of people tapping on laptops — the kind where one spilled drop feels like a crime. We sat near the window. I helped Ben take off his coat, his tiny curls sticking up with static. He giggled when he got whipped cream on his nose, and I laughed too — until a man at the next table sighed loudly. “CAN’T YOU CONTROL HIM?!” he muttered. Then the woman across from him added, “SOME PEOPLE JUST DON’T BELONG IN PLACES LIKE THIS.” My smile froze. Ben’s lip trembled. “Grandma, did we do something bad?” I wiped his mouth, pretending not to hear. “No, sweetheart, some people are just being mean.” But then the waitress came over. I expected kindness. Instead, she said softly, “MA’AM… MAYBE YOU’D BE MORE COMFORTABLE OUTSIDE? There’s a bench right in front of the café on the other side of the road.” The words hit harder than a slap. I looked at Ben — his eyes were wide. “Ben, sweetheart, it looks like we should go,” I said quietly, taking his unfinished chocolate with me. But then he shocked me. “No, Grandma,” he whispered. “We can’t leave.” “What? Why?” His eyes were fixed on something behind me. I turned. Full in the first c0mment