As I signed the receipt, the waiter stepped closer.
“I’m sorry about what happened,” he said quietly.
I looked up.
He glanced toward my mother.
“She kept apologizing whenever those women ordered more food. She even apologized for choosing only a salad.”
My chest tightened.
“She said she didn’t want anyone to think she was being impolite,” he continued. “She seemed worried the entire evening.”
That was exactly who my mother was.
Even while being exploited, she was concerned about making others uncomfortable.
I thanked the waiter and helped Mom to her feet.
As we walked outside, I silently made a promise.
Clarissa would repay every dollar.
And for once, she would understand what public humiliation felt like.
