I forgot my umbrella on the one day the sky opened up over the valley. By the time I reached the diner, my uniform was clinging like a second skin.
The regulars laughed, but kindly. One handed me a dish towel. That was the first good thing.
In my apron pocket, the prescription bottle dug into my hip—Mr. Castellano, it said. Not my name. My fiancé’s father. I was picking it up after my shift.
That’s when I saw her. Mrs. DeLuca, my childhood best friend’s mom, sitting at a booth with a cup of coffee. She didn’t recognize me. Twenty years and a new life will do that.
I almost said something. Instead, I just smiled and refilled her cup. She thanked me without looking up.
Later, walking home in the drizzle without the umbrella, I thought about how many times I’ve started over. This one feels different. This one might stick.