My hand stopped inside my purse.
I glanced back toward the sign outside.
“I thought this was a pet-friendly café.”
“It is.”
“Then I’m confused.”
He crossed his arms.
“Pet-friendly seating is available to customers who spend at least thirty dollars.”
I looked around.
There were no notices.
No menu statements.
No signs mentioning a minimum purchase.
“I didn’t see that written anywhere.”
“It doesn’t need to be written anywhere.”
His tone sharpened.
“I own the place.”
I felt the familiar urge to apologize.
That had become one of my worst habits after Frank died.
I hated inconveniencing people.
If someone bumped into me at the grocery store, I apologized.
If I needed help reaching something on a high shelf, I hesitated before asking.
If I felt unwell, my instinct was still to say I was fine.
Being alone had made me determined not to become anyone else’s burden.
