Fifteen years of marriage felt worth celebrating properly. Between kids, work, and endless errands, “date night” had turned into eating takeout in front of the TV. So when David said he’d booked the elegant restaurant with chandeliers and soft piano music, I slipped into the navy dress he loves and let myself feel like us again.
For the first time in ages, we talked and laughed easily — about our teens, our jobs, and the kind of small moments that make a life together. Then, just as dessert menus arrived, the night took a turn.
A loud group swept in — designer clothes, diamond jewelry, and voices made to be overheard. They complained about the wine, bragged about their vacations, and made it impossible to ignore them. Then a glass tipped, shattering across the marble floor.
A cleaner hurried over — a woman in her sixties, hair pinned neatly back, hands trembling slightly as she knelt to gather the shards. That’s when one of the women from the loud table smirked.
“Don’t they have anyone younger working here?” she said.
Her friend laughed. “Maybe she’s part of the vintage décor.”
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