When we walked in, a few customers looked up with the same judgmental eyes.
But Tina stood straight, wiped her face, and said clearly, “Just so we’re all clear… this café doesn’t tolerate discrimination. If that bothers you, feel free to take your coffee elsewhere.”
Ben beamed and his little shoulders relaxed. He reached for my hand and squeezed.
We started going back there once a week. Tina always had a table ready. She’d bring extra whipped cream. Ben would draw her pictures — superheroes, stick figures, and dragons with aprons.
Sometimes, Tina stopped by our house. She brought muffins, tiny cars, and second-hand books. Ben started laughing again.
I saw it happen gradually. The heaviness lifted from his little chest with every visit. He’d run to the door when he saw her car, and she’d kneel to his level and really see him.
One evening, two years later, he came into the laundry room while I was folding socks.
“Grandma,” he said, “is Tina my real mom?”Continue reading…
