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She didn’t look angry. In fact, her voice was soft and polite like she was delivering news she didn’t want to say out loud.
“Ma’am,” she began, “maybe you’d be more comfortable outside? There’s a bench across the street. It’s quiet there.”
I stared at her. For a second, I considered arguing and demanding an explanation. But I looked at Ben. His little hand gripped the edge of the table, and his lower lip had started to tremble.
“Ben, sweetheart,” I said quietly, picking up his cup and wiping crumbs off the table, “let’s go.”
But then he surprised me. “No, Grandma,” he whispered. “We can’t leave.”
I blinked at him. “Why not, honey?”
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