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When the check arrived, I left a modest tip—10%, enough torecognize effort but not reflective of the experience. As we got up to leave, she snapped, “If you can’t tip properly, don’t eat here!” My wife tensed, ready to argue. “Call the manager,” she muttered. I paused, then said, “Watch this,” and stepped back inside.
The server froze when I asked to see the manager, probably expecting a complaint. But I didn’t scold her. I explained that her errors didn’t seem careless—they looked like someone stretched too thin, exhausted, carrying too much. The manager sighed. “She’s going through a lot personally. And we’re short-handed,” he said. He thanked me for understanding and promised to check on her.
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