The waiter kept smiling, but my eight-year-old saw what I didn’t: his hands were shaking. When he poured water, he kept rubbing one wrist. A bruise flashed under his cuff—fresh—then he yanked the sleeve down like he’d been caught.
My son leaned in. “Mom… look.”
I tried to brush it off until the waiter flinched when the kitchen door opened. Like he was waiting to be yelled at.
When the check came, my son grabbed his kids’ menu, wrote fast, folded it, and held it out.
“Sir… you dropped this.
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