Everyone in the restaurant knew her as Mrs. Evelyn Harper.
She was seventy-two, thin as a reed, with silver hair always pulled back into a neat bun. Her uniform was always clean, her shoes worn but polished, and her movements careful, as if she were constantly apologizing to the world for taking up space. She had been a waitress her entire life—not because she lacked dreams, but because life had demanded sacrifices she never complained about.
That evening, the restaurant was buzzing. Crystal glasses chimed softly, the piano played something slow and expensive, and the air smelled of truffle oil and money. It was the kind of place where people spoke just loudly enough to be heard—and admired.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Evelyn said gently, setting down their plates.
“Sorry doesn’t clean dirt,” the woman scoffed, holding the bag up and inspecting it dramatically. “Look at this. I bring luxury into this place, and they let people like you handle it.”
The man finally looked up, smirking.
“Honestly,” he said, “they should keep staff like her in diners, not high-end restaurants.”
A few nearby diners glanced over, some uncomfortable, others amused. Evelyn felt the familiar heat rise behind her eyes, but she swallowed it down. She always did.
“I can have it wiped immediately,” she said softly.