32. I Don't Care if You Hate Me

I was deep in the rhythm of my shift, chopping vegetables and sliding plates onto the pass. The kitchen was hot. My apron was tight around my waist, barely hiding the round belly that had popped out in the last few weeks.

Seeing myself change so fast was strange.

But I didn't have time to dwell on that. Orders kept coming in, and I had to keep moving.

I was in the middle of flipping an omelet when a ticket came across the line.

Something was highlighted, underlined, and circled: "NOTHING BREADLIKE OR SWEET."

I froze.

I turned around and looked past the kitchen doors into the dining room. Mrs. Roman was sitting at a table in the far corner.

Of course.

I turned back to the grill. I moved on autopilot as I started preparing her order. I didn't want to think about her sitting out there, probably judging every single thing about this place.

The greasy diner, the cheap vinyl booths, the smell of fried food hanging in the air. Everything most people loved about it, but I'm sure she despi