Mom held the note against her chest.
I put my arm around her.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Later that year, Mom finally reduced her hours at the café.
She didn’t retire completely.
I tried to convince her.
“Mom, forty-four years is enough.”
She laughed.
“Who says?”
“Your knees.”
“They complain about everything.”
I smiled.
“Why keep working?”
She thought about it.
Then looked toward the photograph beside the register.
“Because I still like being here.”
And that was the answer.
She wasn’t trapped.
She wasn’t ashamed.
She wasn’t waiting for someone important to offer her a more respectable life.
She had built a respectable life right there.
One cup of coffee at a time.
Today, Mom is seventy-one.
She works three mornings a week.
Mostly because she enjoys seeing the regulars.
Michael still comes in on Sundays.
Sometimes he brings his daughter.
