Taken aback, I looked around. No signs prohibiting children. No mention of it when I had entered. My heart sank as I realized what she meant. She wanted us to leave. I felt a flush of shame and anger rise in my cheeks. “It’s raining hard,” I tried to reason with her, gesturing toward the window where the rain beat mercilessly against the glass. “I just need a few minutes to feed my granddaughter.”

But she was unmoved. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “It’s policy.”

With a heavy heart, I gathered our things, trying to shield Amy from the damp air outside. As I fumbled with her blanket, a voice from the table next to us chimed in. “Is there a problem here?”

The speaker was a tall man with an air of quiet authority, his eyes kind yet piercing. I explained our situation briefly, trying to suppress the tears welling up in my eyes. He listened intently, his expression shifting from curiosity to disbelief and finally to something that looked like righteous indignation.

Turning to the waitress, he asked calmly, “Is this really how this café treats a grandmother and her baby granddaughter?”