When the bill arrived—$180—I paid without hesitation.

I just wanted to leave with some sense of dignity intact. But then the waiter returned, placed the receipt back on the table, and bluntly informed me that I hadn’t included his service fee. It wasn’t the request that bothered me; it was the attitude. It felt like the final signal that our presence had never truly mattered.

I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t argue. I simply told him that his service hadn’t earned one, and I walked away. At that moment, it wasn’t about proving anything—it was about drawing a line. Still, as we drove home, I questioned myself. Had I handled it calmly, or had frustration taken over?