AURORA The holiday sales were brutal.Thanksgiving came and went, and with it, a flood of customers looking for discounts on the pies and pastries Mrs. Bayer baked for weeks. The diner was packed every day from open to close, the line stretching out the door and winding down the sidewalk, the phone ringing off the hook with people calling in their orders. Maria and I worked double shifts without complaint, running between the kitchen and the front, our feet aching, our hands raw from washing dishes and carrying hot plates. The tips were good, better than they'd been in months, but the work was relentless.By mid-morning, the pastry case was nearly empty. Mrs. Bayer was in the back, rolling out more dough, her arms covered in flour, her face flushed from the heat of the oven. Maria was running between tables, her hair escaping from her ponytail, a tray of coffee cups balanced precariously in her hands. I was at the register, ringing up customers as fast as I could, my fingers moving a
Read more