Part 1 — Ten Minutes
“Ten minutes.”
The man tapped the face of his expensive watch as though he were starting a countdown to something far more important than lunch.
“If the food takes longer than that, it comes out of your tip.”
I tightened my fingers around my order pad.
My name is Katrina, and at seven months pregnant, I had learned there were certain things worth arguing about—and certain things worth swallowing.
That afternoon, I needed every dollar more than I needed the satisfaction of telling a rude customer exactly what I thought of him.
So I forced a polite smile.
“What would you like, sir?”
He leaned back in the booth, glanced over our laminated menu, and said, “The most expensive thing you serve.”
We weren’t some elegant steakhouse.
We were a neighborhood diner with burgers, meatloaf, roast chicken, chicken-fried steak, and a ribeye that sat proudly at the top of the menu because it cost several dollars more than everything else.
“The ribeye is our most expensive entrée.”
He frowned.
“Is it good?”
“It’s one of our more popular dishes.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I hesitated.
“I’ve never had anyone send it back.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh.
Apparently, even that answer had disappointed him.
“Fine. Medium rare. Baked potato. No sour cream.”
Then he tapped his watch again.
“Ten minutes.”
“I’ll let the kitchen know.”
I turned away.
“And fresh coffee.”
I stopped.
The cup in front of him had been poured less than four minutes earlier.
“This one’s cold,” he said.
“Of course.”
“And replace the toast.”
He lifted a perfectly golden slice between two fingers as if he were holding something contaminated.
“It’s burned.”
It wasn’t.
But there are times when survival makes being right feel like a luxury.
“I’ll bring you another.”
“Light toast means light toast.”
“Yes, sir.”
As I turned toward the kitchen, I caught the eye of the woman sitting in the next booth.
Elizabeth.
She came into the diner two or three times a week.
Always alone.
Always carrying the same worn brown handbag.
Her silver hair curled softly around her ears, and a wooden cane usually rested within arm’s reach.
She never said much.
Coffee.
Eggs.
Sometimes pie.
But she watched people.
That afternoon, she looked at me with quiet sympathy.
A small look that said:
I saw that.
I gave her the faintest smile.
Then I kept moving.
I couldn’t afford to let one arrogant customer destroy my shift.
Actually, I couldn’t afford to lose much of anything anymore.
Part 2 — Forty-Three Dollars
My baby’s father had disappeared two days after our ultrasound.
He had stood in my kitchen staring at the grainy black-and-white image I’d stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet.
For several minutes, he said nothing.
Then he told me he needed some air.
By the following afternoon, most of his clothes were gone.
No dramatic fight.
No final speech.
Just absence.
It was strange how quietly someone could leave a life they had helped create.
So now there was only me.
Me, the baby growing beneath my uniform, and the forty-three dollars tucked inside an envelope in my purse that I had promised myself I wouldn’t touch unless absolutely necessary.
Rent was due in six days.
My next doctor’s appointment was the following week.
The nursery existed mostly in my imagination.
Every shift mattered.
Every table mattered.
Every tip mattered.
So when the rich man demanded his steak in ten minutes, I personally carried the order ticket to the kitchen.
“Priority?” the cook asked.
“Please.”
He glanced toward the dining room.
“Problem customer?”
“You have no idea.”
Eight minutes later, the ribeye was ready.
Perfectly cooked.
Baked potato beside it.
No sour cream.
Exactly what he had ordered.
I picked up the plate.
Then pain shot across the lower part of my belly.
I stopped so suddenly the plate nearly slipped from my hand.
My free palm hit the service counter.
For several seconds, I couldn’t straighten my back.
“Katrina?”
My manager, Diane, appeared immediately.
She had managed that diner long enough to recognize trouble before most people admitted they were in it.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
She stared at me.
“You just folded in half.”
“Pregnancy pain.”
“You need to sit.”
“It’ll pass.”
“Katrina.”
“I said I’m okay.”
I wasn’t sure whether I was convincing her or myself.
Another wave of discomfort tightened beneath my stomach.
I closed my eyes and breathed.
Slowly, the pain eased.
Diane reached for the plate.
“I’ll take it.”
“No.”
Her eyebrows rose.
