My Aunt Linda waited tables at the same diner near Wilmington for thirty-eight years.
She knew who wanted coffee before ordering, who liked extra napkins, and who needed a minute because they had come in after a funeral or a shift that went wrong. She kept peppermint candies in her apron and always smelled faintly like toast and hand soap.
She raised two boys mostly on tips and stubbornness. On Christmas morning she still went in for the breakfast shift because, as she said, “somebody has to feed the truck drivers.”
Delaware was her whole world, and she made a lot of people feel at home in it.