He tapped his tablet with theatrical slowness. “I don’t see it. Perhaps you’re looking for something more… casual?”
I kept my voice steady. “Please check again.”
Eventually, he found it. Without apology, he led us past the glittering main room and seated us at a cramped table near the swinging kitchen doors—the kind meant to be overlooked.
Lily didn’t notice. She was admiring the ceiling, her hands dancing.
[It’s beautiful, Dad.]
[Not as beautiful as you.]
Twenty minutes passed. No menus. No water.
A waiter named Evan Brooks, according to his name tag, finally appeared. He dropped two glasses onto the table without looking at us.
“We’re ready to order,” I said.
He sighed. “Make it quick.”
Lily smiled at him and signed politely, pointing to the truffle pasta. Evan stared, then scoffed.
“What is that? Some kind of joke?” he said loudly. Nearby diners laughed.
“She’s deaf,” I said, ice creeping into my voice. “She’s ordering.”
“I don’t have time for games,” he muttered. “Just tell me what the kid wants.”
Lily’s hands fell still. Her shoulders slumped.
[Can we go home?] she signed quietly. [I don’t like it here.]