He was quiet for a second. “Are you sure about this, Mrs. Patterson?”

“Harold taught me how to take care of people,” I said. “It took me six years to realize it, but I’m a quick learner.”

Yesterday was Tuesday. It was Becca’s last official shift at the diner before she starts her residency at the hospital.

She came to my booth, but she wasn’t wearing her apron. She was wearing a brand-new set of dark blue scrubs. She had a stethoscope hanging around her neck, and she looked so professional, so grown-up.

She didn’t slide into the booth this time. Instead, she stood beside me and reached into her pocket. She pulled out a small silver pin, the one they give you when you pass your clinical exams.

“I wanted you to have this,” she said, placing it on the table right next to my brass coin purse. “I wouldn’t have this uniform without you. Or Harold.”

I picked up the pin. It was small, cold, and shiny. I clicked my brass coin purse open and slid the pin inside, right next to the fifteen dollars I still carry every week. It fit perfectly.

An older couple walked past our booth, looking for a place to sit. The woman looked tired, her shoulders hunched, holding her husband’s arm like she was afraid she might fall. I looked at them, and then I looked at Becca.

“Sit down, dear,” I said, gesturing to the empty side of the booth. “You have fifteen minutes before your shift ends, and I want to hear all about your first day on the pediatric floor.”

She smiled, her face lighting up, and slid into the booth. The diner was loud, busy, and smelled of warm syrup. But for the first time in six years, the booth didn’t feel empty at all. It felt like home.