“That chair is taking up too much space. People are trying to enjoy their dinner.”
“No,” I said. “Repeat the part about my son ruining everyone’s evening.”
Her eyes flicked around the room. Toward the other tables. Like she was checking to see who was on her side.
“Nobody wants that thing in the middle of the room,” she said.
Liam lowered his head.
He set his fork down very carefully on his plate. The way he does when he’s trying not to cry.
“It’s okay, Mom,” he whispered. “We can just eat upstairs.”
Something inside me went very cold and very still.
I got up from my chair. I went around the table. And I knelt down on the restaurant floor beside my son’s wheelchair, so my face was level with his.
“Look at me,” I said.
He kept staring at his plate.
“Liam.”
His eyes came up. Slowly. They were wet.
“Did you do anything wrong?” I asked.
“I touched the chair.”
“And then what?”
“I apologized.”
“Did the server say you were blocking anybody?”
“No.”
“Then you’re staying right here,” I said. “This is your table. You’re not going anywhere.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he nodded. Just a little.
I stood up.
I took my phone out of my bag and opened the notes app.
The woman frowned at me. “What are you doing?”
