We had just sat down—two steaming coffees on the table, one slice of carrot cake we’d decided to split—when a young server approached us with an awkward stiffness. His voice was quiet but steady.
“I’m really sorry, sir… but your wife can’t be here.”
For a moment, I thought he was joking. My wife, Ana, is the last person you’d ever imagine being banned from a café. But the look on his face told me he wasn’t joking. He added quickly, “Manager’s orders. She was caught stealing from the tip jar. They said it’s happened more than once.”
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