My name is Patmore.
I’m 72 years old, and I’ve been waitressing for more than two decades.
Most days are good. People are kind. Respectful. Familiar.
But last Friday, one woman decided that kindness didn’t apply to her — and that she could walk away from a $112 bill without consequences.
She was wrong.
I work at a small, home-style diner in a quiet Texas town.
The kind of place where strangers greet each other like neighbors and everyone knows which table they prefer.
I’ve been there over twenty years, though I never meant to stay that long.
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