Chapter 9 - Tying the Apron
On Wednesday morning, Hannah came downstairs from our apartment above the diner wearing a pair of faded denim jeans and a crisp, white t-shirt. In her hands, she held the navy-blue apron with Carter’s Table embroidered in gold thread.
She hadn't worn it in three years. Grant had told her that serving food to "blue-collar nobodies" was beneath the wife of a Holloway.
I stood by the coffee machine, watching silently as she wrapped the strings around her waist and tied a firm knot at the small of her back.
"How does it feel?" I asked.
May you like
Hannah smoothed the fabric over her legs, taking a deep breath of the grease and coffee-scented air. "It feels like armor, Mom."
She grabbed a fresh pot of coffee and walked out onto the floor, greeting the morning regulars by their first names. They welcomed her back not with pity, but with loud cheers and demands for extra bacon. She was home.
