You ever just feel like… trapped? Like, not in a bad way, not really. More like, caught. You know? Like when you’ve been doing something for so long, and everyone expects it, and you’re good at it, and it just… is. That’s kinda where I’m at. Like, I’m a waitress, right? In this super small town, super rural. Been here since… forever. My kids grew up here, my parents are here, my *grandparents* were here. It’s home, you know? And these people. My regulars. They’re like… family. Not just the friendly kind, but the kind who know what you’re gonna order before you even sit down. The kind who ask about your mom’s bunion surgery, or if your son got that scholarship for welding. They were there when my husband left, they were there when my dad had his first stroke. They rallied, you know? They brought casseroles, they tipped extra, they just… showed up. And I’ve done the same for them. It’s this whole thing, this community, and I’m right in the middle of it. But… sometimes, late at night, when I’m wiping down counters and the diner’s empty, I just… dream. Not about the lottery or some big trip, nothing like that. I dream about baking. Like, REALLY baking. Not just pies for the diner, but those fancy, delicate little cakes. Croissants that practically melt. Real bread. And I’ve been, like, secretly saving up. And sketching out a business plan. For a boutique bakery. Not here, though. That’s the thing. Not in *this* town. This town, they want apple pie and biscuits and gravy. My thing is… different. And the guilt, man. It’s a physical thing. Like a rock in my stomach. Every time Mrs. Henderson asks if I’m gonna be working next Thanksgiving, or Mr. Pete tells me how much he loves my smile with his coffee, I just… my throat closes up. Because how do you tell these people, these amazing, loving, sometimes-nosy, wonderful people, that you’re gonna pack up and leave? That all the support they’ve given you, all the decades of showing up, you’re just… walking away from it? It feels like a betrayal. A BIG one. I even tried to talk to my daughter about it the other day, kinda fishing, you know? And she just looked at me like I’d grown a second head. "Mom, you *are* this diner. Everyone knows you. What would you even *do* somewhere else?" And it just reinforced it. I mean, she didn’t mean anything by it, I know. But it just… yeah. It hit hard. Like, am I crazy for even thinking this? Am I being selfish? My parents, they’re getting older, you know? Who’s gonna check in on them every day if I’m not here? My son, he’s still local. It’s like, my whole life is woven into this place. And I’m not some kid who’s just starting out, you know? I’m 52. Fifty-two. This isn’t some impulsive thing. This is… this is my last shot, I guess, at doing something truly for me. Something that’s not just about keeping the lights on, or making sure everyone else is fed. This is about… that little spark, you know? That thing inside that just won’t shut up. The one that tells you there’s something more, even when everything else says to just stay put. I’ve got the menu all planned out. I even found a spot, like, 60 miles away, in a slightly bigger town. It’s got exposed brick and big windows. I even have a name picked out. "The Gilded Spoon." I mean, I don’t even— it’s silly, I know. But it feels real. And then I come back to reality, back to scrubbing burnt grease off the grill, and I just feel like… a terrible person. A fraud. Like I’m leading everyone on, taking their tips and their kind words, all while planning my escape. Sometimes I just wanna scream it, you know? "I want to leave! I want to bake fancy cakes!" But I can’t. I just… can’t. Because the thought of seeing their faces, that hurt, that confusion… it just paralyzes me. So I keep my little notebooks hidden under my mattress, and I keep smiling, and I keep pouring coffee, and I keep pretending like this is exactly where I want to be for the rest of my life. And every morning, when I put on that apron, I just wonder… how much longer can I keep this up? How much longer until someone sees right through me?