The man looked to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties. Expensive jacket. Heavy watch. The kind of polished casual clothes that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
His wife had placed a large designer purse directly inside the open wheelchair space.
That was the part I couldn’t get past.
They hadn’t accidentally taken two empty seats.
They had looked at a space designed for a wheelchair and decided a handbag needed it more.
I checked our tickets even though I knew exactly where we belonged.
“Excuse me,” I said.
The man glanced up.
“These are our seats.”
I held out the tickets.
He barely looked at them.
“Sit somewhere else.”
For a second, I thought I had misunderstood him.
“I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.”
I pointed toward Caleb.
“These are accessible seats. My son needs the wheelchair space.”
The man finally looked at Caleb.
