It looked like a large party was in order for their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Because of the kids, work, and never-ending errands, “date night” had become into eating takeout in front of the TV. I put on the navy dress David likes and allowed myself feel like us again when he told me he had gotten a reservation at the posh restaurant with chandeliers and beautiful piano music.
We talked and joked without any trouble for the first time in a long time. We chatted about our jobs, our teens, and the simple things that make up a life together. Then, just as the dessert menus were being handed out, the night transformed.
A loud group walked in wearing expensive clothes and diamond jewelry and made sure everyone could hear them. They complained about the wine, spoke about their vacations, and made it hard to ignore them. Then a glass fell and cracked on the marble floor.
A cleaner ran over. She was a woman in her sixties with her hair neatly tied back. She bent down to pick up the pieces, and her hands shook a little. At that point, one of the women at the loud table smiled.
“Isn’t there anyone younger who works here?” she said.
Her friend laughed. “Maybe she’s part of the old-fashioned decor.”
My heart sank. The cleaner didn’t say anything; they just kept working with tight shoulders. The blonde then dropped a napkin next to her and said, “You missed a spot.” You could need glasses at your age.
Before I could say anything, David’s chair scraped back. Everyone in the room stopped chatting when he walked over and sat down next to the cleaning.
He said in a sympathetic voice, “Let me help you with that.”
She answered in a hushed voice, “Oh no, sir, I can handle it.”
He said, “You don’t have to.” “And not while people are treating you this way.”
The woman who was disrespectful stopped smiling. David stared at her. “You’ve said enough.” The only thing cheap here tonight is your manners.
The silence that came after was electric. The manager walked in, asked what had happened, and then told the four to leave in a calm but firm voice. When they finally did, one pair of hands started to clap. Then one more. Then everyone in the restaurant joined in. We eventually learned that the cleaner’s name was Martha, and she blinked back tears.
She told David, “Thank you.” “You gave me back my pride.”
When the check came later, David begged to talk to her again. He handed her an envelope. He said, “It’s not charity.” ” Thank you. And my card is in there in case you need it.
Weeks later, a handwritten note came.
“I used some of what you gave me to buy nursing books for my granddaughter.” She cried when I told her what happened. You reminded us that there is still kindness in the world. — Martha
We saw her again, this time with her granddaughter Emily, who was training to be a nurse. They brought cheesecake to share and humorous stories to tell. When we said farewell, Martha hugged me and said, “You reminded me that I matter.”
Months went by, and every now and again the phone rang with her name. Last time, she said, “Emily made the Dean’s List.” She is volunteering at a clinic. She said she wanted to help people who are often ignored, starting with myself.
That night, David smiled. He said, “The best gift we could have given each other for our anniversary.”
Being kind doesn’t entail doing great things; it involves speaking up when it’s easier to stay quiet. It starts with one person, one voice, and one small thing that makes someone feel special.