When I ducked into a café to escape the rain and feed my baby granddaughter, hostile strangers made it clear we weren’t welcome. Then someone called the police on me, and a few days later, my face was in the local paper.I had Sarah when I was 40. She was my miracle baby, my one and only. Sarah grew up kind, smart, and full of life.At 31, she was finally expecting her own child. But last year, during childbirth, I lost her.She never even got to hold her little girl.Her boyfriend couldn’t handle the responsibility, so he walked away, leaving me as the sole guardian. All he does now is send a small check each month, but it’s barely enough for diapers.Now, it’s just me and baby Amy. I named her after my mother.I may be old and tired at 72, but Amy has no one else in this world but me.

Yesterday started like any other exhausting day. The pediatrician’s office had been packed, and Amy had screamed through most of her checkup.By the time we finally left, my back ached something fierce, and the rain was coming down hard.I spotted a small café across the street and made a dash for it, covering Amy’s stroller with my jacket.A café with trees reflected in the windows.The place was warm and smelled like coffee and cinnamon rolls. I found an empty table near the window and set Amy’s stroller beside me.She started crying again, so I picked her up and cradled her, whispering softly, “Shh, Grandma’s here, sweetheart. It’s just a little rain. We’ll be warm soon.”Before I could even get her bottle ready, a woman at the next table wrinkled her nose and sniffed like she’d smelled something rotten.