At 65, my mother finally found a job she loved. After months of searching and facing rejection, she landed a position as a waitress at a cozy café nestled between a bookstore and a laundromat. To her, it was perfect. She took pride in the simple act of serving coffee, remembering regulars’ orders, and brightening their day with her smile.
“You should see how happy they get when I hand them their coffee,” she told me over our weekly Sunday dinners. “It’s like serving them a little cup of hope to start their day.”
That was my mom—always finding beauty in the little things.
Before long, regular customers started requesting her section, drawn to her warmth and genuine interest in their lives. She celebrated their good news, offered words of encouragement on tough days, and gave pep talks that seemed to change people’s perspectives.
But soon, something shifted.
I began stopping by the café before work, and it didn’t take long to notice that the usual spark in her eyes had faded. The bounce in her step was gone. She tried to hide it, but I could tell something was wrong.
“Mom, what’s going on?” I asked one evening as she stirred her tea absentmindedly.
She paused, her hands nervously twisting the dish towel. “There’s this man,” she said quietly. “He comes in every day, always sits at table seven. And nothing I do is ever right.”
I waited for her to continue.
“He complains about everything,” she said, her voice strained. “The coffee’s too hot, or too cold. The napkins aren’t folded properly. Yesterday, he even accused me of putting a fly in his drink. He made such a scene I ended up crying in the bathroom.”
My stomach tightened with anger. “Has he said anything to Frank?”
“No,” she shook her head quickly. “He just makes little digs. But sometimes… the way he looks at me, like he’s waiting for me to mess up… it feels like he’s hoping for it.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I knew there was something deeper at play. Over my years as a probation officer, I’d learned to spot when someone was carrying more than just frustration.
The next morning, I went to the café early and took a seat in the corner, watching.
He arrived promptly at 8:15, wearing the same scowl I’d grown to expect. I could see my mom tense when she saw him.
As he sat down, he began his usual routine of nitpicking. “This cup is dirty,” he said, holding it up to the light. “Don’t you check these things?”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” Mom replied, replacing it quickly.
“And these eggs are barely warm. Do you enjoy serving this subpar food?” He pushed his plate away with disgust.
My fists clenched under the table, but I stayed quiet. There was something more to his attitude, something beyond bad service.
I watched him closely—especially the way his demeanor changed when my mom laughed with a young couple, or when she encouraged a nervous student. This wasn’t about the coffee or the food. It was personal.
As he stood to leave, he muttered something under his breath, and my mother flinched, as though he’d slapped her.
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