I’m Esther, 72, and I’ve been waitressing at the same small-town Texas diner for over twenty years. Most customers are kind. Some are rushed. A few are grumpy before coffee. But nearly everyone treats me with basic respect. Last Friday, one woman didn’t. I’ve still got the energy of a teenager on the floor. I may move slower, but I remember orders, pour drinks carefully, and treat every guest like they’re sitting at my kitchen table.
The diner became my anchor after my husband, Joe, passed away. We met here in 1981—he came in one rainy afternoon, soaked, asking if our coffee was strong enough to wake the dead. I told him it was. He laughed. He came back the next day. Six months later, we were married. Last Friday’s lunch rush was hectic. Every table filled. A young woman walked in, filming herself on her phone. She sat in my section and began criticizing every detail of her meal to her audience: “The chicken’s dry.
The lettuce is wilted. This tea is lukewarm.” I stayed calm, corrected minor issues politely, and kept smiling. She continued for half an hour, refusing to pay her $112 bill and declaring she was leaving. I didn’t panic. I grabbed Simon, a younger server, hopped on his bike, and went after her. Calm, polite, persistent—we followed her through Main Street, the park, even a yoga studio, reminding her she hadn’t paid. Finally, she handed over the exact amount, yelling, “Just stop following me!” Back at the diner, everyone cheered.
Danny and the other servers clapped, and someone even gave me a little “Respect Sheriff” badge to wear on shifts. Some people think age makes you soft. It doesn’t. It teaches you how to stand your ground. In this diner, respect isn’t optional—it’s the whole menu. I may be 72, but I still know when to act, and I still know how to protect what’s rightfully mine, with a smile on my face the whole way.
