Last month, I went to a restaurant with my daughter. She paid me a surprise visit while I was at my shop, and we decided to go to the restaurant.

When we sat at the table, a waiter immediately approached us and told us that their place was not for people like me, as I was apparently “too old” and dressed “inappropriately.” My daughter was outraged, but there was no sense in arguing as bodyguards came to lead us out.

I was shocked by such disrespect. A few days later, I dressed to the nines and returned to the same restaurant alone. When the waiter saw me, he turned as white as chalk because he recognized me from the incident.

With a calm demeanor, I walked up to him and asked for a table. He stammered and stuttered, clearly flustered by my presence. But I didn’t let his discomfort deter me. I demanded to be seated, insisting that I had every right to dine at their establishment just like anyone else.

Reluctantly, the waiter led me to a table, still visibly shaken by my return. As I sat down, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction wash over me. This was my payback, my way of showing them that they couldn’t discriminate against me based on my age or appearance.