Chapter 1

Rosie

The familiar symphony of the Sunrise Diner greets me as I push through the kitchen doors—plates clinking against each other, coffee brewing in perpetual cycles, and the steady hum of conversation that never quite dies down. I balance three plates on my left arm and grab a fourth with my right hand, muscle memory guiding my steps between tables packed too close together.

"Morning, honey." Mrs. Patterson waves from her usual corner booth, silver hair perfectly coiffed despite the early hour. "The usual?"

"Two eggs over easy, wheat toast, and black coffee coming right up." I slide the plates I'm carrying to table six before circling back to her. "How's your grandson doing with his baseball league?"

"Oh, you're such a doll for remembering." Her weathered hands flutter over the menu she never actually reads. "Little Tommy hit his first home run last week."

"That's wonderful." I scribble her order on my pad, though I could place it in my sleep. Mrs. Patterson has ordered the same breakfast every Tuesday and Thursday for the past three years. "I'll get that started for you."

The kitchen bell dings twice, code for table twelve needs their check. I weave between a businessman typing furiously on his laptop and a young mother trying to convince her toddler that pancakes require actual eating, not just syrup fingerpainting.

"Here you go." I place the check beside the construction worker's empty plate. Tips from the blue-collar crowd tend to be better than the suit-and-tie types, even when the bills are smaller. Every dollar counts when you're juggling rent, groceries, and the electric bill that seems to grow larger each month.

Three hundred and forty-seven dollars. That's what I need to cover everything this week, not counting the late fee on my student loan that I've been dodging like a professional boxer. Last month's diner receipts were down fifteen percent according to Sal, our manager who loves sharing bad news with all the enthusiasm of someone announcing a root canal.

"Excuse me, miss?" A woman at table four holds up her coffee cup. "Could I get a warm-up?"

"Of course." I grab the pot from the warmer, grateful for the routine task that keeps my hands busy while my brain does its daily arithmetic dance. Elijah's daycare costs two-twenty a week. Rent is two thousand a month. Groceries run about sixty if I'm careful, avoid the name brands, and stick to the sales.

The coffee splashes into her cup, steam rising between us. "Anything else I can get for you?"

"Actually, yes." She looks up from her phone with a genuine smile. "My daughter's starting college next year, and I'm trying to remember what it was like to be that age. You look young enough to have recent experience."

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. "College feels like a lifetime ago, but it wasn't that long." I don't mention how pregnancy and single motherhood have a way of fast-tracking you through experiences most people take decades to navigate.

"Well, you handle this chaos beautifully." She gestures around the diner. "Takes skill to keep track of all these orders and still smile."

The comment hits differently than she probably intended. Smiling is part of the uniform here, just like the apron tied around my waist and the name tag pinned slightly crooked on my chest. Customers don't want to hear about how I lay awake calculating whether I can afford Elijah's new shoes this month or next, or how many times I've refreshed my checking account balance hoping some miracle deposit appeared overnight.

"Thank you, that's sweet of you to say." I top off her coffee again, muscle memory taking over while my thoughts spiral back to the numbers game that never stops playing in my head.

The bell above the front door chimes, announcing another customer. I glance over to see Mr. Rodriguez settling into his usual spot at the counter. He owns the auto shop three blocks down and always orders the breakfast special with extra hash browns.

"Morning, Mr. Rodriguez." I pour his coffee before he even asks.

"You're an angel, Rosie." He unfolds his newspaper with practiced movements. "How's that boy of yours doing?"

"Growing too fast and eating me out of house and home." It's the truth disguised as a joke, the way most single parents learn to package their struggles.

"That's what they're supposed to do." He chuckles, completely missing the financial weight behind my words. "My grandson's the same way. Hollow leg, my daughter calls it."

I nod and move to the next table, where a young couple debates whether to split the pancakes or order separate plates. Their biggest concern seems to be calorie counts and weekend plans. I remember having problems that simple, back when my most pressing decision was which elective to take or whether to stay up late finishing a paper.

The breakfast special costs twelve-fifty. If Mr. Rodriguez leaves his usual three-dollar tip, that's fifteen-fifty toward my weekly goal. Two hundred and ninety-one dollars and fifty cents to go.

My reflection catches in the coffee pot's surface—tired eyes that makeup can't quite hide, curly hair pulled back messily because there wasn't time to do anything fancy this morning. The woman who stares back looks older than twenty-six, worn down by responsibilities that seemed impossible just a few years ago.

The lunch rush won't start for another hour, leaving the diner in that peaceful lull where conversations drift at a comfortable volume and the coffee pot stops its frantic gurgling. I use the quiet moment to refill the sugar dispensers, but my eyes keep wandering to the space beneath the register where my journal hides between yesterday's receipts and a stack of order pads.

Three months of lunch breaks and stolen moments have filled those pages with fragments of something that might actually become a real story. The manuscript started as scattered thoughts about a woman rebuilding her life, but somewhere between chapter two and three, it transformed into something bigger—a story about finding strength in unexpected places and learning that broken doesn't mean worthless.

I glance around the diner to make sure Sal isn't watching from his office, then slide the journal out just enough to glimpse the latest page. The words I wrote during yesterday's fifteen-minute break stare back at me:

Maya pressed her forehead against the cool window of the subway car, watching the city blur past in streaks of light and shadow. She'd thought love meant safety, but sometimes the safest thing you could do was walk away.

The parallel hits too close to home, like it always does when I write about characters making impossible choices. Maya's story isn't mine exactly, but the emotional landscape feels familiar, that territory between hope and heartbreak where most of my real life seems to exist.

"More coffee over here when you get a chance," calls the businessman at table eight, his laptop screen reflecting harsh blue light across his tired features.

I tuck the journal back into its hiding spot and grab the coffee pot, but the words from my manuscript continue echoing in my head. Maya's story needs an ending, something I've been putting off because endings require decisions, and decisions about fictional love lives hit too close to decisions about real ones.

The coffee pours in a steady stream while my thoughts drift to the pages waiting to be written. Publishers want completed manuscripts, not half-finished dreams stuffed under diner counters. Agent websites talk about word counts and market trends like they're discussing the weather, all this industry knowledge I've absorbed during late-night research sessions while Elijah sleeps.

Fifteen thousand words down, maybe twenty thousand to go. At this rate, I'll finish sometime next year, assuming I can maintain the stolen moments between coffee refills and customer complaints about over-easy eggs that aren't quite right.

"Fantastic, thanks." The businessman barely looks up from his screen, already lost in whatever corporate crisis demands his immediate attention.

I move to wipe down the empty tables, but the familiar ache starts building in my chest—that hollow space where my writing dreams bump against reality. Other aspiring novelists probably have quiet apartments and scheduled writing time, not school pickup deadlines and bills that multiply faster than completed chapters.

The memory hits without warning, the way they always do when I'm feeling particularly sorry for myself. Alexander's voice, confident and encouraging, floating across our shared dorm hallway during those late college nights when everything seemed possible.

"You're going to be famous someday, Rosie. I can feel it."

He'd sprawl across my bed while I typed on my ancient laptop, occasionally reading passages over my shoulder and making comments that actually improved the story. Back then, writing felt like something I did for fun, not this desperate scramble toward a future that might never arrive.

"I'll be your first reader when you get published," he'd promised, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my arm while I edited dialogue that now seems amateur compared to what I write today.

The memory brings that familiar twist in my stomach, equal parts warmth and regret. Alexander believed in my talent before I even knew I had any real talent to believe in. He saw potential in my messy first drafts and encouraged the creative risks that scared me.

But believing in someone's dreams and staying around to watch them come true are entirely different commitments, something I learned the hard way when reality crashed into our college bubble.

I spray cleaning solution across table nine's surface, scrubbing harder than necessary to chase away the might-have-beens that still visit when my guard drops. Alexander probably doesn't remember those conversations about my writing career. Six years creates a lot of distance, enough space for new priorities and different promises to other people.

A burst of laughter from the corner booth breaks through my brooding, where a family with three kids under ten attempts to negotiate the eternal breakfast battle between healthy choices and sugar-loaded cereals.

"Mommy, can I have chocolate chip pancakes?" The youngest, maybe five years old, bounces in his seat with the kind of energy that makes hardened waitresses smile despite themselves.

"You had cereal for breakfast at home," his mother responds with the patient tone that only comes from years of similar negotiations. "How about we compromise with regular pancakes and you can add some fruit?"

The little boy considers this counteroffer with the seriousness of a Supreme Court justice, tiny forehead wrinkled in concentration. "What kind of fruit?"

"Blueberries or strawberries."

"Both?"

"Both."

Something sharp and unexpected lodges in my throat watching this everyday moment play out. The easy affection between mother and child, the father reading menu options to their older daughter, the simple camaraderie and love between mother and father whenever they share a look. I wonder to myself… could I have had that life? With Alexander?

"Order up, Rosie!" Sal yells, smacking on the bell.

I sigh, wiping the exhaustion out of my eyes as I head over to the counter. "Coming!"