Last Wednesday should have been my grandparents’ 50th anniversary. But Grandpa passed away two years ago.
It broke my Grandma, but she still celebrated — alone.
She went to their favorite restaurant, ordered all their usual dishes, and cried quietly into her napkins. She left a 20% tip.
As she stood to leave, the waitress, Jessica, stormed over and hissed,
“You seriously think this is enough? You sat here all night. Alone. Took up a whole table. Left a mess of napkins. Maybe if you weren’t SO CHEAP, you wouldn’t be alone.”
Grandma didn’t even argue. She just emptied her wallet and walked home in tears.
When she told me, I was shaking. Furious. But I didn’t yell or write a bad review.
Instead, I made a reservation and specifically requested Jessica. I told the restaurant she’d been so wonderful to my grandma.
Saturday night, my friend and I showed up looking fancy. We ordered the most expensive wine, appetizers, and desserts. I tipped Jessica after every pour. She was glowing with fake smiles and sugar-sweet compliments.
Then, when the check came, I told Jessica, “You’ve been amazing. This is just a little thank you.”
I pulled out a thick envelope. Her eyes lit up. She thought it was full of cash. But when she opened it, she went pale.
Inside were photocopies of her own words from that night — printed in bold, along with a note:
“Kindness costs nothing. But cruelty can cost you everything.”
Jessica’s smile vanished. The manager, who had been watching curiously, snatched the envelope from her hands.
Within minutes, Jessica was called to the back. She didn’t return to our table.
The next time Grandma visited the restaurant, the manager himself served her — on the house. And this time, she left smiling.
When Grandma told me about her next visit, her voice was lighter, almost shy.
“They seated me by the window,” she said. “Brought me tea before I even ordered. And everyone kept stopping by to make sure I was okay.”
It wasn’t just the manager, either. The new waitress — a kind, young woman named Emily — stayed and chatted with her, asked about Grandpa, and even wrote down a recipe Grandma mentioned in passing.
Word must have spread quickly, because people from other tables smiled warmly, and one older couple even invited her to join them for dessert.
Meanwhile, Jessica’s name had quietly disappeared from the staff roster. I later heard she had been “let go” after several complaints came to light. Apparently, Grandma wasn’t her first victim — just the one who finally exposed her.
A week later, Grandma called me again.
“I think I’ll go there every Wednesday now,” she said. “Not to be sad… but to remember him. And maybe… to make new memories too.”
That night, I realized revenge hadn’t just brought justice — it had given Grandma something even better.
It gave her a place where she could smile again.
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