Last Wednesday marked what would have been my grandparents’ 50th anniversary. My grandfather, Walter, passed two years ago,

but my grandmother, Doris, wanted to honor the day. She wore the pearl brooch he had given her, visited their favorite restaurant,

and ordered their usual meal. Though she left the largest tip she could afford, 20%, her evening ended in tears when the waitress,

Jessica, mocked her loudly for tipping “too little” and cruelly commented on why she was “alone at her age.”

When Grandma told me, I knew Jessica needed to understand the harm she caused. Instead of venting online, I made a reservation

under her name and brought my friend Jules, a photographer. We dressed up, ordered the most expensive items, and kept Jessica

convinced she would get a huge tip. At dessert, I handed her an envelope filled with napkins carrying messages Grandma couldn’t

say that night: “You should be ashamed,” “She’s a widow, not a wallet,” and “Karma’s coming.” I explained what she had done and why it was cruel.

The next morning, the manager emailed, apologizing and confirming Jessica no longer worked there. That weekend, Doris returned

to find her old booth decorated with flowers, a kind new server, and a slice of pecan pie “from Walter.”