They put the flat I was renting up for sale, so I had to move out. I cleaned it thoroughly and left. The next day, my landlady called, and I immediately worried that I’d left something broken.
But instead, she thanked me for leaving the place so clean. Then she asked, “How come you’re not bitter like the others?”
I didn’t have an immediate answer. I just laughed awkwardly and said, “I guess I’ve just had good landlords.”
She laughed too.
“No, you haven’t. I remember when the boiler broke in December, and the ceiling leaked. You never complained.”
“Well, it wasn’t your fault the ceiling leaked in a storm,” I replied, downplaying it.
I had been frustrated, but what was the point of making a fuss? “You’re rare,” she said softly. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you.
Really.”
After the call, I sat on the bare mattress in my new place, just thinking for a moment. The new flat was smaller, darker, and more expensive. It was all I could find on short notice.
I was in between jobs, freelancing when I could, trying to hold it together after a breakup. My life felt anything but stable. But her words lingered: “You’re not bitter like the others.”
I didn’t feel rare.
I felt like I was barely keeping my head above water. The next morning, I went to a nearby café to apply for some gigs and look into a potential teaching job. I’d been tutoring English online, but the hours were unreliable.
At the café, the barista seemed stressed, and I overheard her saying they were short-staffed. I asked if they were hiring. She looked at me, confused.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” I smiled. “I’ve done café work before. I’m good with people, and I learn fast.”
She handed me an application.
Two days later, I was in an apron, steaming oat milk. It was minimum wage, but at least it was something. The café had a strong community vibe.
Regulars came in daily, ordering the same things, sharing the same jokes. One of them was Mr. Harrington, a quiet man in his 60s who always wore a cap and left a generous tip.
One rainy Tuesday, he forgot his umbrella, so I chased after him to give it back before the storm hit. He smiled at me like I’d given him gold. “Young folks don’t usually notice things like this,” he said.
“You’re different.”
That word—different—again. I didn’t think I was doing anything out of the ordinary. Over the next few weeks, Mr.
Harrington started staying longer. Sometimes he’d bring a book or a newspaper. One morning, he showed up with a small notepad.
“I’m trying to write again,” he said. “Nice,” I replied, handing him his usual coffee. “What are you writing?”
“Memoir,” he mumbled.
“Not sure if it matters now, but… it’s something to do.”
“Of course it matters,” I said. He smiled, surprised. “You really think so?”
“Everyone’s story matters,” I assured him.
From then on, he shared more about his life. His wife had passed away a few years ago, and his daughter lived abroad. He’d worked in construction all his life, never went to college, but had always wanted to write.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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