By Thursday night I was running on fumes. Parent-teacher conferences had stretched past eight; my voice was sandpaper, my feet were protests, and chalk dust had colonized my hair. The thought of going home to an empty fridge and pretending pasta with butter was a “meal” felt like a personal attack, so I pulled into Willow & Co. Café for something warm and kind.
The place is all amber lamps and soft jazz, the kind of space that makes you feel like you’re doing okay at adulthood. I joined the line and let the smell of coffee and bread unknot my shoulders—until a voice sliced through the room.
Every head twitched in that direction. A man in a suit—tailored, glossy shoes, the whole performance—was glaring at an elderly woman in a cleaning smock. She couldn’t have been younger than seventy. A yellow WET FLOOR sign stood beside her; a mop and bucket sat at her feet. Continue reading…
