kicking seats and throwing food.”
The father frowned.
“Seriously?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We paid for these seats.”
“So did everyone else.”
Tamika looked at Ethan.
“All I’m asking is that feet stay on the floor and food stays in the bucket.”
“He’s a child,” the mother snapped.
“I understand.”
“He moves around.”
“That’s fine. Throwing popcorn at other guests and repeatedly kicking their seats is not.”
“He wasn’t throwing it.”
Tamika remained calm.
“I watched from the side entrance before coming over.”
Silence.
“He was.”
The father stood.
“Then why don’t those two move?”
He pointed at us.
That was when Owen spoke.
“Because we’ve been waiting seven months for tonight.”
His voice wasn’t loud.
But it was steady.
Everyone nearby became quiet.
“My father has dementia,” Owen said. “He lives with us. We haven’t had a night alone since February. We hired a trained caregiver tonight. We reserved these seats
