The ocean was healing. It washed away the exhaustion and dissolved the bitterness. Allison started catching her reflection in shop windows and realized she still had that glow. Men on the beach looked twice, but she just smiled to herself, enjoying her own company for the first time in years.
On one of those golden afternoons, as the sun began its slow dip toward the horizon, Allison was heading back from a local farmer’s market. The stalls were overflowing with peaches, heirloom tomatoes, and fresh shrimp.
But it was the watermelons that caught her eye—huge, dark green, and striped. She suddenly craved a cold, sweet slice of summer. She picked out a massive one that sounded hollow when she tapped it and paid the vendor. It had to weigh twenty pounds, but she was determined.
Clutching the heavy fruit against her chest, Allison made her way back toward the inn. She was already imagining getting back to her room, taking a cool shower, and slicing into that crisp, red fruit. It was a simple, perfect goal.
Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the group of rowdy teenagers coming her way. They were jostling each other, laughing loudly, and taking up the entire narrow sidewalk. Allison tried to press herself against a picket fence to let them pass.
But luck wasn’t on her side. One of the boys, playing a game of tag, suddenly lunged backward without looking. He slammed right into her. The impact was jarring. The heavy watermelon slipped from her sweaty grip.
There was a split second of silence, followed by the wet, heavy thud of the fruit hitting the pavement. It split wide open like a dropped ornament. Bright red juice and seeds splattered everywhere—all over Allison’s white sandals and the teenager’s expensive sneakers.
— “Watch where you’re going, lady! You ruined my shoes!” the kid barked, looking at his feet with disgust. His friends erupted in mocking laughter, tossing out a few more choice insults.
Instead of an apology, Allison was met with pure, unearned hostility. She stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, looking at the remains of her “perfect afternoon” in a puddle of pink juice, and felt a lump form in her throat. It wasn’t about the watermelon.
It was the feeling of being completely unprotected. Here she was, a grown woman, a mother, being bullied by kids, with no one to stand up for her. Tears of frustration threatened to spill over.
— “That’s enough! Apologize to the lady and get moving,” a calm, authoritative voice cut through the noise. The laughter stopped instantly. A man who had been walking a few paces behind the group stepped forward.
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