I thought the evening would be remembered for the proposal.
For the way the candlelight caught in her hair. For the careful toast I had practiced in the mirror. For the soft certainty that if I arranged everything just right, love would carry the rest.
And for a while, it did.
We laughed. We remembered who we used to be before life became calendars and alarms. The restaurant blurred into the background, exactly as I had hoped.
Then hospitality turned into inconvenience.
A different table. Short answers. Eyes that slid past us as if we were already finished. I told myself not to let it matter. Romance, after all, is supposed to float above small annoyances.
But dignity has weight.
When the bill came, I paid it gladly. Gratitude is easy when you feel welcomed. It is harder when you feel tolerated.
The accusation about the service fee landed like a verdict: not guest, not human, just obligation.
I surprised myself with how calm I felt.
I simply said that respect is part of service, and tonight it had been missing.
Then we left.
In the car, she squeezed my hand and said she was proud of me. Not for spending money. Not for planning something beautiful.
For knowing when to walk away from being diminished.
The manager called the next day with apologies and offers.
But the real gift had already arrived.
Love stayed.
Self-respect stayed.
And somehow, that mattered more than perfection ever could.
