Last Wednesday would’ve been my grandparents’ 50th anniversary. But Grandpa Walter passed two years ago, and this year, Grandma Doris decided to honor him quietly—at the same restaurant where they had their first date. She wore her pearl brooch, sat at their usual booth, ordered their favorite meal, and tipped 20%, all she could spare.

But the night was ruined by a waitress named Jessica, who mocked her. “You think this is enough, grandma?” she sneered, waving the receipt. Grandma, too stunned to respond, gave her the rest of her money—her bus fare—and walked home in tears.

When she told me the next day, I was furious. Not the shouting kind of mad—but the steady, focused kind. I made a reservation under a false compliment, requesting Jessica as our server. My best friend Jules, a photographer, came with me. We dressed up, ordered everything, and smiled sweetly. Jessica, oblivious, soaked it up.

When dessert arrived—pecan pie, of course—I handed Jessica an envelope. Inside were folded napkins. On each, written in black Sharpie, were the words my grandmother couldn’t say that night. “You should be ashamed.” “She’s a widow, not a wallet.” “Karma’s coming.”

Jessica’s smile faded. I stood, raised a toast loud enough for the room to hear, and let the truth land. Then we walked out.

I emailed the manager. Jessica was fired.

The next weekend, I brought Grandma back. Same booth. New server. Fresh flowers. And this time, a slice of pie for her to take home.

She smiled. “He was with us tonight.”

And I believed her.