Just as I began to settle in, the server returned, his expression uneasy. “I’m so sorry,” he said gently. “Would you mind moving closer to the kitchen? A family’s arriving, and we’d like to combine your table with the one next to it.”
The subtext was clear: a solo diner takes up less space, and space is currency. The instinct to yield—to smile and say “No problem!”—rose quickly. I knew that reflex well.
“Thank you for asking,” I said evenly. “I’d prefer to stay here.”
A flicker of tension crossed his face, then softened. “Of course,” he replied. “Absolutely. Thank you.” He walked away, gripping the menu a little too tightly.
Then came the doubt. Was I selfish? Did the family need more room? But before the spiral took hold, the halibut arrived—perfectly seared, layered with lemon and herbs like a quiet symphony. One bite steadied me.
An Unexpected Thank-You
“Excuse me?”
I looked up, expecting the server. Instead, a woman in her forties stood beside me—navy wrap dress, lipstick carefully applied over visible fatigue. Behind her stood a family: twin girls in cardigans, a teenager with hair over his eyes, a man adjusting his cuffs.
“I’m the mother of the family that needed the extra table,” she said. I braced for reproach.
But her smile was warm. “I didn’t come to ask you to move. I came to thank you for not moving.”
I blinked, surprised.
Her words softened something in me. She wasn’t correcting me—she was affirming me.
“I used to eat alone a lot after my divorce,” she added. “People don’t realize how easily singles get pushed aside. I want my kids to understand: we don’t ask others to shrink.”
Her kindness felt like a gift placed gently on the table. “Thank you,” I managed.
“Enjoy your dinner,” she said, nodding at my plate. “You chose well.” Then she returned to her family, the girls waving shyly as if we’d shared something unspoken.
Small Moments of Belonging
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