Last Wednesday would’ve been my grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary.
But Caelen, my grandpa, passed away two years ago. It was sudden. One minute he was tending the garden, humming an old tune, and the next… he just fell.
The paramedics said it was a stroke. Swift and final.
It shattered Melus.
Melus and Caelen had been inseparable since they were 17. He called her “darling” like it was her real name. He remembered how she took her tea, saved the last bite of dessert for him, and always held his hand during slow songs… even if it was just from a TV jingle.
I always wondered what it would be like to love someone like that. I couldn’t imagine caring for a person that long, even though they made it look effortless.
After he died, Grandma never let him go. Last year, on their anniversary, she lit a candle by his photo and sat quietly for hours. It was the first anniversary without him… and the first not at their eatery.
This year, she told me she wanted to return to the eatery where they had their first date—and every anniversary since.
“Nothing else feels right, Hecate,” she said. “This will mean something sacred.”
So she made a booking for herself. Melus put on her blue top and the pearl pin Caelen gave her for their 25th anniversary. She took a bus downtown and ordered their usual: ribs with mashed potatoes, lasagna to split, and pecan pie.
Then she sat alone in their favorite corner nook. She cried a little, smiled a little, and tried to savor the meal.
When she was done, she tipped 20%, all she could spare.
That should have been it. A quiet, tender, and painful evening. A sacred moment for Melus, letting her feel close to Caelen again.
But then Oeno appeared.
Her name stuck in my mind because Grandma repeated it over and over, like a bitter echo.
“She was vicious, Hecate,” Melus said, her voice quivering. “The meal was hard enough, but she destroyed it.”
Oeno marched over, receipt in hand, waving it like a weapon.
“You think this is enough, grandma?” she snapped, venom dripping from every syllable.
“Excuse me?” Melus blinked, confused.
“You sat here all night,” Oeno sneered, loud enough for other diners to glance. “All alone. You took up the entire corner. I had to clean up after your mess. And this? This pathetic tip?”
Melus tried to speak, but her throat tightened, words failing.
“No wonder you’re alone at your age,” Oeno spat, leaning close, eyes gleaming with malice. “If you weren’t so cheap, maybe someone would have stayed.”
I could see the fury ignite in Melus.
“She actually said that?” I whispered, incredulous.
“I didn’t know what to do,” Melus admitted, voice breaking. “I didn’t want a scene.”
“So you gave her more cash?” I asked sharply.
“All I had left,” she whispered, “and it was my bus fare… I didn’t mean to tip that little. I just… needed something for the ride.”
She recounted walking eight blocks, shoes pinching, hands trembling, eyes raw from crying. The chill in the air mirrored her heart.
The next morning, her hands still shook. I reached across the table, grasping them. Tiny. Fragile.
“I didn’t want to confront her boss,” she said softly.
“You didn’t confront anyone, Grandma,” I said, voice steady but sharp. “She did. And she’s about to pay for it.”
Anger bubbled in my chest, but it was sharper than heat. It was a cold, calculated fury, mixing with sorrow and righteous indignation.
I didn’t want to scream at Oeno. That would have been too obvious. And I didn’t want to post a nasty review she could laugh off by tomorrow.
No. This needed to sting. To humiliate her. To make her feel it.
I called the eatery.
“Hi,” I said, syrupy sweet, “I’d like to reserve a table for two on Saturday night. Could we have Oeno as our server? My grandmother was there recently, and she treated her so wonderfully!”
I overpraised her, coaxed the boss into thinking Oeno had done right.
Then I texted Soren, my friend and photographer extraordinaire.
“Bring your camera, Soren. We’re going to be calm, classy, and deliciously clever.”
Saturday came. Soren arrived, sleek, ready, eyes gleaming. Camera poised.
We entered like royalty. Oeno noticed immediately, the confidence she wore like armor faltering ever so slightly. She smiled, naive, expecting a rich tip.
“You folks look amazing tonight!” she chirped. “Can I get some wine? We’ve got a nice red blend from—”
“The fanciest one,” I interrupted, eyes locked.
Her grin widened. Hooked. I ordered every fancy dish, laughed at her jokes like a fool, praised her endlessly. She ate it up. Every compliment, every eye roll of faux delight, tightened the noose.
By dessert—pecan pie, naturally—her glow had grown.
“You’ve been exceptional tonight,” I said, reaching into my bag. “We wanted to leave you something extra.”
Her eyes sparkled with anticipation as she opened a thick envelope. Cash? She hoped. Instead, her grin faltered. Then froze.
Inside were plain white napkins, each carefully folded, each marked in bold black marker.
Oeno’s smile wavered.
“Excuse me,” I said, voice clear, cutting through the hum of the restaurant. “I’d like to make a toast!”
Soren readied his camera. Oeno’s face drained of color.
“To Oeno,” I said, “thank you—not for tonight, but for how you treated my grandmother a few nights ago… when she sat here alone, missing her Caelen.”
Nearby diners paused. Eyes widened. Phones lingered.
“She wore the pearl pin he gave her on their 25th anniversary,” I continued. “Remember, Oeno? She ordered their favorite dishes, left 20%—all she had, besides her bus fare—and she cried into her napkins all night.”
Oeno’s mouth opened slightly. Nothing came out.
“And you told her,” I pressed, “that she was cheap. That she deserved to be alone.”
I held up another napkin. Each one laid bare her cruelty, contrasted with Melus’ strength.
“She’s a widow, not just a tip,” I read aloud.
Oeno’s eyes widened. Fingers twitched. She realized, finally, the depth of the embarrassment about to crash over her.
Soren clicked away, every reaction captured.
The last napkin:
“Be kinder,” I said, directly into her eyes.
Pale. Stiff. Guilt pressed into every feature.
“This is your tip, Oeno,” I said, voice low but steel-sharp. “Do better.”
I placed the envelope gently on the table. Then we walked out. Not a word more. Not a glance back.
The sting would linger far longer than any scream.
Later that night, I emailed Mr. Ellis, the boss, with photos and drafts of reviews I hadn’t posted.
“Please take this seriously,” I wrote.
Next morning:
“Dear Hecate,
This is unacceptable. Oeno is no longer with us. Please, come back for a meal on us.”
The following weekend, I took Melus back. Nervous, sweater over her blue top. The table was set, flowers fresh.
“In honor of Melus and Caelen’s 50 years of love,” I said.
Our server was Jocas. Gentle, steady, nothing flinched him. He handed a fresh napkin with a warm grin, and an extra slice of pecan pie.
“For later,” he said, holding her hand. “On us, for Caelen.”
Outside, Melus paused. Hand brushing mine.
“He was there, Hecate,” she whispered.
“I think he’d be proud,” I said.
Her smile warmed the night. Genuine.
“You too, love,” she said, linking arms. “Grandpa and I were always proud of you.”
We lingered, glanced back at the eatery one last time, then boarded the bus. Home. Together.