On Valentine’s Day, my ex showed up at the restaurant where I work with his glamorous new girlfriend. He mocked my job, spilled champagne, and tipped me a quarter. He thought he’d won until I slid an envelope onto the table and watched his smile disappear.
My name is Maya.
I’m a single mom of two beautiful kids who deserve better than what their father gave them.
I work double shifts as a waitress at the diner on Route 12. Some weeks, I’m there for 60 hours. Other weeks, more.
My widowed mom helps raise my kids while I keep us afloat.
My feet ache by the end of every shift. I smell like grease and coffee. My hands are rough from constant washing.
But it’s honest work. And it keeps my family fed.
Three years ago, my husband, Carl, walked out on us.
No warning. No explanation.
Just packed a bag one Thursday morning and said he couldn’t do it anymore.
At first, I thought he meant our marriage. Turns out he meant responsibility itself.
A month after he left, the collection calls started. Credit card companies.
Loan officers. All asking for money I didn’t owe.
That’s when I realized what Carl had done. For two years while we were married, he had been opening credit cards in my name.
He’d forged my signature and racked up debt I knew nothing about.
By the time I discovered it, he’d disappeared.
No forwarding address. No phone number. No child support.
Just me, the two kids, and nearly $40,000 in fraudulent debt.
I filed police reports. Hired a lawyer I couldn’t afford. Started the long process of proving I was a victim.
But documentation takes time.
And in the meantime, I still had rent to pay. Kids to feed. And bills piling up.
So I picked up extra shifts and learned to survive on less.
That’s all I could do.
***
This Valentine’s Day started like any other shift. I dropped the kids at my mom’s house at 5 a.m. Drove to the diner.
Tied my apron. Made coffee.
By noon, the place was packed. Couples everywhere.
Flowers on tables. Heart-shaped balloons tied to chairs.
Everyone was celebrating love while I refilled coffee and cleared plates.
I was taking an order from a table of teenagers when I heard the door chime.
Carl walked in wearing a tuxedo that looked like it cost more than my beat-up secondhand car.
Beside him was a woman who belonged on a magazine cover.
Tall. Blonde. Perfect makeup.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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