I had been running Maggie’s Diner for more than three decades, long enough to trust my instincts, or so I thought. When fifteen bikers walked in late on a quiet Tuesday night, leather vests heavy with patches, boots tracking dust across the floor, something in me bristled. I asked them to pay before they ate, my voice firm and sharp, convinced I was protecting my place and my customers. The biggest one, gray-haired and broad-shouldered, didn’t argue. He nodded, paid in cash, and thanked me politely. Still, shame flickered in my chest, quickly buried beneath habit and fear shaped by years of running things alone after my husband died. Continue reading…
