If he noticed I skipped meals to save money, he’d shove a burger toward me after closing and growl, “Eat before you pass out and become paperwork.”
Mrs. Holloway came into the diner every Wednesday and Saturday morning at exactly 7:30.
First booth by the window.
Black coffee.
Toast burned slightly darker than normal.
And complaints about almost everything.
The first time I waited on her, she squinted at my nametag.
“Daniel,” she said. “You look exhausted.”
“Long week.”
She snorted. “Try being eighty-four.”
That was basically our friendship beginning.
After that, she always asked for me.
“You ever smile?” she asked one morning.
“Sometimes.”
“I doubt it.”
Another day, she pointed at my hair and said, “You look like you lost a fight with a lawnmower.”
“Nice to see you too.”
“Hm,” she muttered. “At least you sound awake today.”
She was difficult in a strangely entertaining way once you got used to her.
Then one afternoon, everything changed.
I was carrying groceries home after work when she called to me from behind her front gate.
“You live nearby, boy?”
“Few houses over.”
She studied me for a second before saying, “You want to earn some decent money?”
I stopped immediately.
“Doing what?”
She opened the front door and motioned for me to follow her.
Inside, she poured tea strong enough to melt metal and got straight to the point.
“I’m dying,” she announced casually.
I nearly choked.
“Oh, stop reacting like that,” she snapped. “I’m old, not immortal.”
Then she explained.
Her health was failing.
She needed help.
Groceries.
Medication.
Rides.
Repairs.
Company.
“And in return?” I asked carefully.
She watched me closely.
“When I’m gone, everything I own goes to you.”
Honestly, it sounded insane.
But I needed the money.And maybe deeper down, I wanted someone to choose me for once.
So I shook her hand.
At first, our arrangement stayed practical.
I handled errands.
Fixed things around the house.
Sorted medication into labeled containers.
Drove her to appointments.
And she complained through every minute of it.
“You’re late.”
“It’s been three minutes.”
“Still late.”
But slowly, something changed between us.
She started asking me to stay for dinner.
Her cooking was terrible.
Once she served meatloaf so dry I drank four glasses of water trying to survive it.
“This is awful,” I told her honestly.
“Then starve,” she replied without missing a beat.
We watched old game shows together most evenings.
She yelled answers at contestants through the television like pure confidence could somehow reach them.
Some nights, she talked about her younger years.
And eventually, I started talking too.
About foster homes.
About learning not to expect permanence.
About never making plans too far ahead because life had a habit of destroying them.
One night, she muted the television and looked directly at me.
“You only think about surviving the next month,” she said. “That’s no way to live.”
I shrugged.
“Dreaming feels expensive.”
That winter, she knitted me the ugliest green socks I had ever seen in my life.
“I made those,” she snapped when I laughed. “So your feet stop freezing.”
At the diner, Harvey eventually noticed I rushed out every night after work.
“You dating somebody?” he asked one evening.
“I’m helping Mrs. Holloway.”
He nearly dropped an entire tray laughing.
“That terrifying old woman?”
I explained our arrangement.
