Behind her was Owen.

The manager stopped beside Row G.

“My name is Tamika,” she said. “I’m the manager tonight.”

Ethan’s parents finally looked up from their phones.

His feet froze against my seat.

“We’ve received several complaints,” Tamika said calmly. “About 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 weeks ago.”

He looked toward me.

“My wife has popcorn in her hair and soda on her clothes. She has asked you politely more than once.”

Then he looked back at the man.

“So no. We’re not moving.”

The father stared at him.

“That isn’t my problem.”

“No,” Owen said quietly.

“It isn’t.”

He gestured toward me.

“But she is my responsibility.”