My former school classmate came to our restaurant with her husband and looked at me condescendingly when she saw me behind the bar. They examined the menu for a long time choosing something cheap. And later, she posted 300 selfies, saying that they celebrated their anniversary at our restaurant.
So, I just smiled, because honestly, it wasn’t the first time I had seen someone pretend their life looked fancier online than it actually was. But deep down, it stirred something in me—memories of high school, of how she always wanted to show off and make others feel small. Her name was Karina, and back in school, she was the type who always had the newest phone, the trendiest clothes, and an endless audience of girls who copied everything she did.
I was never part of that group. I worked after school to help my parents, and instead of brand-name sneakers, I wore whatever my cousin handed down. Karina made sure I never forgot that.
She’d make little comments like, “Oh, nice shoes, did your grandma knit them?” and her group would laugh. I never responded. I wasn’t quick with comebacks, and honestly, I just wanted to survive those years.
Fast forward fifteen years, and here we were. I was behind the bar of my family’s restaurant, wiping down glasses, and she was walking in, still holding her head high like the world owed her admiration. The difference was, I was finally proud of where I stood.
This restaurant wasn’t just a job. It was my family’s sweat and heart poured into every wall, every dish. My father started it as a tiny food stand, and over the years, with all of us working together, it had grown into a warm, cozy place that regulars loved.
Karina walked in like she owned the place, dragging her husband along. He looked tired, the kind of tired that comes from carrying more than your share. They sat by the window, scrolled through the menu, and ordered the cheapest pasta and one drink to split.
She took pictures nonstop, adjusting her hair, angling the camera, making duck faces. I caught fragments of her commentary as she narrated for Instagram: “Anniversary dinner at the most exclusive restaurant in town…” I almost choked when I heard that. Exclusive?
We were proud of our place, but “exclusive” was a stretch. I let it slide, like I always had. But as the evening went on, something kept gnawing at me.
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