I walked into the diner for the first time in four years. The divorce was final that morning, and I didn't know where else to go.
Dottie was still there, apron smudged, coffee pot in hand. She looked at me, squinted, then said, 'Scrambled eggs, wheat toast, no butter. You want coffee too, right?'
I nodded, and she wrote nothing down. I never could remember if she was just good at her job or if she saw something in me that mattered.
The stack of borrowed books from the library book club sat on the passenger seat of my car. I'd have to return them. The choir director had called twice, asking if I'd come back to rehearsals.
I'd stopped going to all of it. The choir, the book club, the potlucks. They were his friends, mostly. I thought I'd disappear when I left him.
But Dottie remembered my eggs. She remembered I didn't like butter. She remembered me, even when I'd tried to forget myself.
I wish I could tell my younger self: you don't have to vanish. The people who remember your order will still be there. The life you built is still yours, even if the house isn't.
I ate my eggs slowly, watching the river through the window. It was still moving. So was I.