At sixty-two, I never imagined that a simple afternoon visit to a restaurant would reopen a chapter of my life I had spent decades trying to forget. After collecting my blood pressure medication, I entered Romano’s, hoping to escape the scorching heat and rest for a few minutes.
Wearing my faded cotton dress and worn sandals, I approached an empty table. Before I could sit down, a young manager stopped me. She looked me up and down before declaring that people like me did not belong in her restaurant. I calmly explained that I only needed water, but she laughed and called security. Then another woman emerged from the office, took one look at me, and suddenly froze.
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