As I headed back out, I passed the waitress wiping down a table, hands shaking, her face tight with worry. Without making a scene, I slipped a folded note into the tip jar and added enough cash to turn that 10% into something generous. The note read, “Everyone has hard days. Your effort is seen. I hope tomorrow is kinder to you.” I didn’t wait for her to find it. I simply met my wife outside and gave her a small nod.
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We didn’t even reach the car before the restaurant door swung open. The waitress rushed toward us, tears streaming down her cheeks. She apologized—not with excuses, but with raw honesty. She said she’d been working double shifts while taking care of a sick family member and was barely holding herself together. She told us the note felt like someone finally understood what she was trying so hard to hide. My wife, who minutes earlier was ready to demand her firing, softened instantly. She hugged the young woman and murmured something comforting. The three of us stood there in the glow of the streetlights, strangers momentarily connected by vulnerability
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