My name is Colette. At sixty, I never thought I would find myself wearing a cheap polyester uniform, standing for hours in uncomfortable shoes, and carrying plates to customers who barely noticed I was there.

But sometimes life takes you places you never expected to go.

The uniform at Murphy’s Diner was far too large for me, its red color faded after countless trips through the washing machine. My name tag simply said “Colette” in worn white letters. Whenever I caught my reflection in the shiny side of the coffee machine, I hardly recognized the woman looking back.

Her hair was gray. Her eyes were exhausted. She looked like someone who had spent years taking care of everyone else and had somehow lost sight of herself.

This was never how I imagined my retirement.

I thought I would spend these years enjoying the quiet life Robert and I had worked so hard to build. Maybe I would travel occasionally using his pension, sit on our porch, and watch our grandchildren grow up. We had spent thirty-five years paying off our home, and I had imagined finally having the time to enjoy it.

Instead, I was learning how to carry several plates at once while forcing a polite smile for customers who sometimes treated me as though I were invisible.

I had only been working at Murphy’s for three weeks.

Three weeks since everything I thought my life would be had fallen apart.

Thankfully, the other waitresses treated me kindly. Ruth, especially, became someone I could rely on. She had worked at the diner for fifteen years and could handle the busiest lunch rush as if she had done it a thousand times.

She taught me how to balance plates without dropping them, remember several orders at once, and keep a smile on my face even when my feet were aching.

On my first day, she adjusted my apron and looked at me with the warmth of a mother helping her child prepare for school.

“Give it some time, sweetheart,” she said. “Your body needs a few weeks before it stops complaining.”