He fumbled for words, muttered something about a bank error. I didn’t want to make him feel worse, so I smiled, slid my card across the counter, and paid without hesitation. “Don’t worry,” I whispered, trying to ease his shame. He thanked me, kissed my forehead, and we started to leave. But as we passed the reception desk, the receptionist caught my eye. She leaned closer, her voice low and careful, almost as if she didn’t want him to hear.
