For what would’ve been her 50th wedding anniversary, my grandmother Doris returned to the restaurant she’d shared with Grandpa Walter for decades. Dressed in her navy blouse and the pearl brooch he’d given her, she ordered their usual meal and sat alone in the booth they’d always requested. It was supposed to be a quiet, tender way to honor him.

But the evening was shattered when the waitress, Jessica, mocked her for leaving a modest tip, even sneering that no wonder she was alone at her age. Grandma gave her the last of her money, then walked eight blocks home in tears, too shaken to call a manager.

I couldn’t let her carry that humiliation. So I made a reservation, requested Jessica, and with a friend by my side, we played along until dessert. Then I handed Jessica an envelope—not with cash, but with napkins covered in the words my grandmother couldn’t say: “She’s a widow, not a wallet. Doris has more dignity than you ever will. Karma’s coming.”

Jessica paled, and soon after, she lost her job. The next weekend, I took Grandma back. The staff honored her and Walter with fresh flowers, kind service, and a slice of pecan pie wrapped “for later.” As we left, she whispered, “He was there, Taylor. I could feel him.” That night, I knew Grandpa’s love had been defended—and Grandma’s dignity restored.