"I don't intend to."
It was nearly a year after the graduation celebration when Belmont House invited Marian back for its annual staff dinner. She had not worked a shift there in months, but the restaurant still held a strange place in her heart. She remembered the ache in her feet after closing, the careful calculations over grocery bills, and the table where a stranger had tried to make her feel small in a language he thought she could not understand.
The manager, Mr. Calder, greeted her at the entrance. He looked nervous, as though she had come to inspect the silverware.
"You're not here to evaluate us, are you?" he joked.
"Only the dessert," Marian answered.
Inside, the dining room looked different without wealthy guests occupying the best tables. Waiters, dishwashers, cooks, cleaners, and hosts sat together beneath the chandeliers. Marian recognized Jenna Flores, a young server who had once studied vocabulary cards between shifts.
"I passed the entrance exam," Jenna whispered when Marian embraced her. "I'm starting nursing school in January."
Marian nearly cried. Months earlier, Jenna had asked how anyone found the courage to return to education after a long interruption. Marian had helped her locate scholarship applications and proofread an essay, but Jenna had completed the difficult work herself.
"You did it," Marian said.
"You made it seem possible."
"Then do the same for someone else when you can."
Mr. Calder asked Marian to say a few words before dinner. She stood beneath the same chandelier that had once illuminated Alistair's cruel laughter. She expected to feel triumphant. Instead, she felt a quiet gratitude for the people who had worked beside her when neither wealth nor recognition was waiting at the end of the night.
"When I wore this restaurant's uniform," she told them, "I met people who assumed it explained everything about me. But I also met coworkers who knew I was tired before I said a word, who traded shifts when my grandmother had appointments, and who saved me dinner when I couldn't afford to order any. Those were the people who saw me clearly."
She looked toward the kitchen staff, many of whom were blinking back tears.
"I don't want anyone to think the happy ending is that I no longer wait tables. There's nothing shameful about serving dinner. The happy ending is having a choice, being treated fairly, and helping someone else find theirs."
The applause that followed was loud, unpolished, and wonderfully familiar.
After dinner, Marian stepped outside for some air. She found Alistair standing near the entrance, awkwardly holding a paper bag. He had come at Mr. Calder's invitation but stayed away from the spotlight. Inside the bag was a small box of Hungarian pastries from a family bakery near South Quay.
"For Eleanor," he explained. "I remembered she likes the apricot ones."
Marian accepted the bag, amused. "You used to have your assistants remember everything for you."
"I still do when I forget," he admitted. "But I'm trying to pay attention first."