I looked around, silently pleading. But no one met my eyes. In my day, we’d say it takes a village. Now, it felt like I was the village—and the storm was closing in.
“I’ll order something,” I said. “As soon as she settles.”
Two police officers stepped inside, rain dripping from their uniforms. One was older, steady-eyed. The other looked fresh-faced, but kind. They scanned the room and walked toward me.
“Ma’am,” the older one said, “we were told you’re disturbing customers. Is that true?”
I blinked. “Someone… called the police?”
“The manager flagged us down,” the younger officer said, nodding toward a man near the counter, arms crossed, mustache bristling.
“I didn’t cause a scene,” I said. “My granddaughter was crying. I just needed a dry place to feed her.”
The older officer raised an eyebrow. “So the disturbance… is a baby?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
The manager stepped forward. “She refused to leave. She’s disrupting paying customers.”
“It’s about café culture,” the manager snapped.
The younger officer looked at Amy, still fussing. “Mind if I try? My sister has three kids.”
I hesitated, then handed her over. To my amazement, Amy settled instantly, drinking her bottle against his uniform.
He smiled. “See? Problem solved.”
The older officer turned to the manager. “Bring us three coffees and three slices of apple pie with ice cream. We’ll sit right here with the lady and her granddaughter.”
The manager flushed crimson and stormed off.
For the first time that day, I felt safe.
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