To That Woman at the Restaurant
— Credit to the rightful owner

I saw you.

I saw the way your elbow nudged your husband when we walked in.
I saw the glance—sharp, pointed, not subtle—toward our table.
I saw how your eyes followed us with judgment, not curiosity.
I saw you study me and him as though we didn’t belong.

I saw your laughter—too loud, too performative. I heard the way you talked. I saw you lock eyes with your daughter, and her gaze flicker to us with silent questions. I smiled at her anyway.

And while I sat there—trying to enjoy a quiet dinner with the man I love—I held back.

I held back the hurt.
I held back the words I could’ve said.
I even held back the basket of chips I almost threw across the table. And believe me, it was tempting.

Because here’s the truth: I’m not oblivious.
I know what racism looks like even when it’s wearing pearl earrings and a forced smile.
I’ve prepared myself for moments like this—moments I wish I didn’t have to prepare for.

But what makes this all even more painful is him.

The man sitting across from me?
He is gentle.
He is patient.
He is warm and loyal and kind in ways that most people only dream of.
He loves fiercely, and with intention.

And he chose me.

But because of that—because we dared to sit together, to hold hands, to laugh—he’ll forever have to prove himself to people like you. As if love needs defending. As if color writes character. As if your disapproval is the measure of what’s right.

And let me make something clear:
I don’t care how old you are.
I don’t care what year you were born, what town you’re from, or what your “generation” believed.

Your upbringing is no excuse for your hate.

So I have to ask—where, along the way, did someone convince you that skin tone determines worth?
That race defines respect?
That love needs permission?

You say, “It hurts the children.”
You’re right—it does.
But not my children.
They will grow up surrounded by love, courage, and honesty.
They will learn that compassion is stronger than cruelty.
They will be taught that their worth is not up for debate.

It’s the children being raised by people like you that I worry for.

Children who learn how to sneer across tables.
Children who are taught not to ask why, just to mimic.
Children who will one day sit in restaurants and pass judgment without even knowing why.

So to that woman—and to the next person who dares to look at us like we are anything less than human:

I’m not holding back the chips next time.

Love is not yours to define, and we are not yours to shame.