My name is Esther. I’m 72 years old, and I’ve been serving food at the same small-town Texas diner for over two decades. I’ve waited on farmers before dawn, families after church, teenagers on first dates, and truckers who needed coffee more than conversation. Most people are polite. Some are impatient. A few are grumpy before caffeine kicks in.
But last Friday, one woman decided manners didn’t apply to her.
I may be older, but I still move with purpose. I don’t forget orders. I don’t cut corners. And I treat every customer like they’re sitting at my own table at home. That’s how I was raised—and how I’ve always done this job.
I never meant to stay this long. I took the job after my husband Joe passed, just to give myself somewhere to go besides an empty house. But the diner became my routine, my community, my anchor. It’s where Joe and I met decades ago, and some days it still feels like he’s watching from his favorite booth, smiling.
That Friday was chaos. Full house. Kitchen slammed. I was carrying plates when a young woman walked in filming herself, narrating like the rest of us were props.
She sat in my section.
I greeted her with a smile. She barely looked up. She ordered complicated, camera-friendly food and critiqued everything for her livestream. The tea was “wrong.” The salad was “dry.” The service was “slow.” She complained while eating nearly every bite.
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