They celebrated their 15th wedding anniversary at an elegant restaurant—crystal chandeliers, soft jazz, candlelight. Seated nearby were two couples: the women glittering in diamonds and designer dresses, the men sharply tailored and flaunting expensive watches. Their laughter was loud, intrusive, as though the restaurant belonged to them.

Then one of the men gestured wildly and knocked over a glass of red wine, sending it crashing to the floor. The shattered glass caught the light like a spill of rubies. Immediately, a fragile, gray-haired cleaning lady — perhaps in her sixties — approached with a mop and cloth, murmuring apologies as she bent to clean the mess. She looked small and diminished under the room’s glow.

That’s when the cruelty began. One of the women sneered, “God, doesn’t anybody younger work here?” Her companion tittered. “Look at her shoes — they’re falling apart. What kind of restaurant hires homeless people?!” she barked. The man with her added, smirking, “Maybe she’s part of the vintage décor.” Their voices dripped contempt, loud enough for half the hall to hear. The cleaner blinked rapidly, fighting tears.

The narrator’s stomach tightened. Her husband, eyes blazing, jumped up so abruptly his chair scraped the floor — the screech echoing through the restaurant. The laughter died instantly. He strode across to the table of the offenders. In that moment, every head in the restaurant turned toward him.