I never imagined I’d find myself tying on an apron and slipping order pads into my pocket at 33 years old. Life had taken so many turns I hadn’t predicted, but that night, as I adjusted my ponytail in the staff bathroom of the Italian bistro downtown, I told myself it was worth it. I was doing this for my son.
My husband, Michael, worked long hours as a financial analyst. His salary paid the mortgage, the bills, and the car, but it left little room for extras. He was proud of being the provider, proud of the neat columns in his budget spreadsheet that showed everything balanced.
He was practical, not unkind, but he didn’t see the point in spending money on things he considered “unnecessary.”
Our son, Lucas, was turning eight. His one birthday wish was a trip to the local amusement park with his friends. Tickets were expensive, and the food and rides added up quickly.
When I brought it up, Michael shook his head, saying, “He doesn’t need all that. We’ll have cake at home. That’s enough.”
I wanted to agree, but when I looked at Lucas’s face, I couldn’t.
I remembered being his age, wishing for things my parents couldn’t afford. I remembered how it felt to sit in class while other kids shared stories about adventures my family could never give me. I didn’t want that for him, not if I could help it.
So, I found a solution. A friend mentioned the bistro was hiring part-time servers. The pay was decent, especially with tips.
I applied and got the job, telling myself it would just be for a couple of months—long enough to save up for the birthday trip. I didn’t tell Michael. He would have been furious, not just about the secrecy, but about what he’d consider a “demeaning” job.
He cared too much about appearances, especially around his mother. Ah, his mother. Margaret Bennett was the type of woman who carried herself as though she owned every room she entered.
Widowed young, she’d raised her children with the mantra that appearances mattered more than anything. Designer clothes, the right neighborhoods, the right schools. She never missed a chance to remind me that I came from “modest” roots, a thinly veiled way of saying I wasn’t good enough for her son.
When I quit my job as a receptionist to stay home with Lucas during his early years, she acted as though I’d proven her suspicions true. “Some women just don’t have the drive,” she’d said once, not even bothering to lower her voice. I avoided her when I could, but she always found ways to insert herself.
And that’s how, three weeks into my secret waitressing job, she walked into the bistro. It was a Friday night, the restaurant buzzing with chatter and the clatter of dishes. I had just finished balancing a heavy tray when I turned toward Table Seven—and there she was.
Margaret, in a sleek navy dress, pearls glinting at her neck, her posture as rigid as ever. She wasn’t alone. Two of her closest friends, women just as sharp-tongued, flanked her.
My heart sank. I prayed she wouldn’t recognize me in the dim lighting, but her eyes landed on me instantly. They widened in disbelief, then narrowed with unmistakable glee.
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