They told us we didn’t belong there. One moment my grandson Ben was laughing with whipped cream on his nose, the next a stranger muttered about children, and a waitress gently suggested we might be more comfortable outside. What was meant to be a small reward after the dentist turned into quiet humiliation. Ben’s shoulders folded as he asked if he’d done something wrong, and I told him the truth as softly as I could: sometimes people forget how to be kind.
As I bundled him into his coat, Ben pointed back inside. He’d noticed a tiny birthmark beneath the waitress’s eye — the same one beneath his own. When I looked again, I saw more than the mark. Familiar features stirred something uneasy and strange in my chest.
Outside, as the cold bit our cheeks, the waitress hurried after us. With trembling hands, she asked if Ben was my biological grandson. I explained that my daughter had adopted him before she and her husband died, and that I was raising him now. When she asked his birthday, her composure broke.
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