The loudmouth behind me scoffed. “Oh, great. Another bleeding heart. You’re just enabling her! You’re what’s wrong with this country, old man. Soft.”
I spun on my heel. I moved into his personal space. I might be old, but I still know how to stand my ground.
“Soft?” I asked, looking him dead in the eye.
The store went dead silent.
“I wore a uniform for this country when I was 19 years old,” I said, my voice low and steady. “I watched friends die in the mud so you could stand here in your warm clothes and buy your expensive beer.”
I pointed a crooked finger at his chest.
“We didn’t fight for the economy. We didn’t fight for a political party. We fought for the person standing next to us. That’s what Americans do. We take care of our own.”
I leaned in closer. “Bullying a tired nurse who’s trying to feed a baby? That doesn’t make you a patriot, son. It just makes you a coward.”
The man turned purple. He opened his mouth, looked around at the crowd—who were finally glaring at him—and snapped his mouth shut. He abandoned his cart and stormed out the automatic doors.
I turned back to the girl. She was sobbing openly now.
“Sir,” she choked out. “I can’t pay you back. I don’t…”