At 65, my mother had finally found a job she loved. After months of searching and facing rejection, she was hired as a waitress at a small café wedged between a bookstore and a laundromat. To her, it was perfect. She found joy in the simple act of serving people their morning coffee, remembering their orders, and brightening their day with her warm smile.
“You should see how happy they are when they get their coffee,” she told me during our weekly Sunday dinners. “It’s like I’m serving them a little cup of hope to start their day.”
That was my mom—always finding poetry in the smallest things.
It wasn’t long before regulars started requesting her section, drawn to her kindness and genuine interest in their lives. She celebrated their good news, encouraged them on their bad days, and even offered pep talks that sometimes changed someone’s path.
But then something changed.
I started stopping by the café before work, and I noticed that the bounce in her step had disappeared. The spark in her eyes had dimmed. She tried to hide it, but I knew her too well.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” I asked one night as she absently stirred sugar into her tea.
She hesitated, her hands twisting in her dish towel. “There’s this man,” she finally admitted. “He comes in every single day. He always sits at table seven. And nothing I do is ever right.”
I stayed silent, waiting. After ten years as a probation officer, I had learned the power of patience.
“He complains about everything,” she continued. “The coffee is too hot, then too cold. The napkins aren’t folded properly. Yesterday, he accused me of putting a fly in his drink. He made such a fuss I ended up crying in the bathroom.”
My blood boiled. “Has he complained to Frank?”
“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “He just… makes comments. Little digs. But sometimes the way he looks at me…” She shuddered. “Like he wants me to mess up. Like he’s waiting for it.”
That night, I lay awake thinking. My instincts told me there was something deeper here. I had dealt with all kinds of difficult people in my career, and I knew when someone was carrying more than just anger.
The next morning, I arrived at the café early, took a seat in the corner, and waited.
He arrived at exactly 8:15, wearing a scowl that could curdle milk. I knew it was him the second I saw my mother stiffen at his presence.
I watched as he nitpicked every detail of her service, his voice dripping with disdain.
“The rim of this cup is spotted,” he announced loudly, holding it up to the light. “Don’t you check these things?”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” Mom apologized, quickly replacing it.
“And these eggs are barely warm. Do you enjoy serving subpar food?” He pushed the plate away like it was offensive.
I clenched my fists under the table, forcing myself to observe. There was something in the way he watched my mother interact with others—the way his expression hardened when she laughed with a young couple, the way his jaw tightened when she encouraged a nervous student.
This wasn’t about the service. This was personal.
As he stood to leave, he muttered something under his breath. Mom flinched as if he had slapped her.
That was it.
I stood and stepped into his path. “Excuse me. Can I have a word with you?”
He looked down at me, unimpressed. “And you are?”
“I’m the daughter of the woman you’ve been tormenting for weeks. I’ve been watching you. And frankly, your behavior is disgusting.”
He scoffed. “What are you going to do about it?”
“To start, I’ll tell you why you’re doing this,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “You’re not mad at my mom. You’re mad at yourself. You’re bitter, and you can’t stand seeing someone so full of kindness and warmth because it reminds you of everything you lost.”
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