I used to work as a server. One woman came in quite angry. She snapped her fingers, threw food back for no reason, didn’t tip, and wrote, “Try smiling more.” I did it. Then I flipped the receipt over and wrote, “Try to give more.” She saw it and stopped.
For a second, it looked like she was going to explode. Her eyes darted back to mine, which were thin and chilly. I thought I was going to lose my job or at least get yelled at in front of everyone. She stood up, grabbed her purse, and departed without saying anything else.
I assumed that was the end of it. She was simply another unpleasant customer, like so many others. Honestly, I had gotten used to dealing with unpleasant customers. At a mid-range diner on the edge of downtown, you encounter all kinds of people. The ones who act like you’re not there. The folks that act like you’re their servant. And the few nice ones that leave a smile and a good tip. But what about her? She stayed in my mind.
Not because of what she said, but because I saw something in her face as she turned to leave. Not angry. No offense. Feeling guilty.
A few days went by. Life went on as usual. Making pancakes, getting orders wrong, and spilling coffee. She came back on a Tuesday afternoon that was really slow.
Before she saw me, I saw her. She walked with the same stiff gait and wore a blouse with a pointed collar. But something wasn’t right. She looked like she was tired. Not like she was having a rough day, but rather like she hadn’t slept properly in weeks. She sat down at the same booth in the corner. This time she didn’t snap her fingers. She was patient.
I walked over, not knowing what would happen. My tummy was doing this weird flip. I said, “Hey,” gently. “Back again?”
She didn’t smile, but her voice was gentler. “Yes.” I’m sorry.
I didn’t believe that would happen.
She pulled a piece of paper that was folded out of her bag. I thought the folded document would be a complaint form or a printed review from the internet, but it wasn’t. It was a letter. Someone wrote the note by hand.
“I didn’t give you a tip that day because I was mad, not because you didn’t deserve it.” You were fine. I was just angry. I wasn’t mad with you. “At anything.”
I didn’t say anything. She just stood there and moved her hands around.
“My son… he died.” He died a month ago. He was killed in an automobile accident. Things haven’t been going well for me. The day I came in was his birthday.
It hit me all at once that I had realized something. How chilly she was. The snap. The note. It has nothing to do with me. They were so sad that they hit the first thing that moved. I suddenly felt bad about my tiny comment on the receipt.
“I really am sorry,” I said.
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. What did you write? You were right. I was being mean. I think I just needed someone to notice that I was falling apart. I know you don’t have to, but…
She lost her voice. She was embarrassed and looked down.
I went to the booth next to hers. Even though it wasn’t “professional,” I could tell that this wasn’t about the rules.
“I didn’t know,” I said. “But… I’m glad you came back.” Many folks wouldn’t.
She nodded. “Can I have a cup of coffee?” “Just sit down for a minute?”
I didn’t ask for cash. All I did was bring her coffee and sit down when I could. She talked to me about her kid. His name was Jonah. He liked to skateboard, eat cereal with too much sugar, and watch scary movies with lots of blood. She grinned when she told me how he used to put marshmallows in the microwave and watch them blow up.
We talked for an hour. She left a $20 tip on a $3 cup of coffee.
That should have been the end. But life has a weird way of coming back to itself.
She came back every week for the next three weeks. Same booth. She always liked the same cup of coffee. A croissant is provided once in a while. Sometimes I would hear a story about Jonah. I never pushed or poked. I only listened.
Her name was Denise.
When I arrived into the diner one morning, I spotted a small gift with my name on it on the counter. There was a message from Denise inside.
“You reminded me that there is still kindness in the world, even when it seems like it’s over.” Thanks.
And a check. The cheque was for $500.
I couldn’t believe it. That was money for the rent. More than just rent, in fact. I went out into the street to try to catch her, but she wasn’t there.
The next day, she came in like nothing had occurred. She didn’t listen when I tried to say something.
“I sold some of Jonah’s things.” I thought the money could help someone who needed it. I assumed you were.
She was right. I was late on my rent by two weeks. My manager was also intending to slash my hours. That check saved my life.
Then the twist that I didn’t see coming happened.
A man walked into the diner on a Friday night wearing a suit that didn’t fit right and glasses that kept slipping off his nose. He wanted to know if I was “the person who made Denise smile again.”
I blinked. “I guess?”
He grinned. “She talks about you.” I’m her brother. My name is Greg. I run a small foundation that assists kids, and I also work with a food truck that gives former criminals a second chance.
I still wasn’t sure. “Okay…”
He got closer. “We need someone who knows about food.” Who isn’t afraid of people? Denise says you’re good at both things.
They were intending to open a new diner in the city center, but it would be different from the others. Everyone who worked there would be trying to start again, such folks who had recently come out of prison, left a shelter, or turned 18. They required someone to operate the floor and teach new servers how to do their jobs.
Me.
I had never had to take care of anything before. I didn’t even finish my degree. But he said that Denise trusted me. That was all it required.
I took the risk.
It was hard to leave the old restaurant. It was where I resided. But the new venue, Second Serve, didn’t open for three months.
It wasn’t fancy. The plumbing was giving us trouble. The fryer broke down twice in the first week. But everyone there wanted a new opportunity at life. And I was a part of it. Not only was I flipping pancakes, but I was also helping others alter their lives.
One of our earliest hires was a man named Ramon. He had been in jail for stealing, but he was a kind person. Stop talking. Saw everything. While I showed him how to balance plates on one arm, he wrote down what I said.
One day, a customer was nasty to him. He jumped back, as if he believed he was going to get hit. But I went in, calm and secure. We assured the customer that we respected everyone, and they did too.
Ramon said, “No one has ever defended me before.”
That moment stayed with me.
Another was Kayla, who had just turned 19. She had been living on the streets since she was 15. She dropped a tray of cups on the first shift. All over the place, broken. She started to cry and claimed she would just leave since she knew she would mess it up.
I gave her a mop and said, “You’re not going anywhere.” You are learning. She is learning, just like the rest of us.
She stayed. She’s the greatest waitress we have now.
Denise came to see us after six months.
She looked around and saw that the place was full of people who were eating, laughing, and working. She cried.
She told me, “I’m proud of you.”
“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you,” I said.
She laughed. “On a receipt, I just wrote something mean.”
I said, “No.” “You came back.” That was the main thing.
And she did. She showed her commitment over and over again. Giving away food. We paid for one of our workers to go to school at night. On Tuesdays, we also started a small support group for parents who were grieving in our side room.
I never expected that a sarcastic comment would lead to all of this. An eatery. A lot of different kinds of people were involved in this event. Not just for other people, but also for me.
And the best part is this.
A year after we opened, a young man came in one afternoon. He was anxious and placed his hands in his hoodie pocket. I could see something in his eyes that made me think of how Denise appeared that first day.
He stayed in the same place.
There wasn’t much ordered. He asked for a cup of coffee. Also didn’t say much. Until I gave them the check.
He flipped it over and wrote:
“Try to smile more.”
I was about to laugh. But then he said, “I don’t know why I wrote that.” It’s just… This month has been the worst one ever for me.
I sat down in front of him.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He thought about it. Then they agreed.
And just like that, the cycle started over.
Sometimes all you need is a smile, a seat, and someone to talk to.
What does the story mean? Please remember how strong it is to show up again. Of saying sorry. Even when you’re in agony, it’s important to choose kindness. One bad word or modest action can change a life—or many—if we allow it. You never know who is only one discussion away from making things better.
