Chapter 3
My breakfast cart was up and running.
I made fresh breakfast sandwiches and pancakes right there on the griddle, the kind that went for four or five bucks at chain joints, but I sold the sandwiches for two and the pancakes for a buck each.
I brew fresh coffee and sell it for a buck a cup.
People crowded around, curious about the sight. They wondered why an old lady like me wasn't kicking back at home, but was out here selling breakfast instead.
Someone joked, "Don't end up losing money and having your son and daughter-in-law nag you about it when you get home."
My cheeks went red from all the attention, and I hurried to explain, "My daughter-in-law did the math. I'm not losing money.
"I've still got my health, and I know my way around a griddle. Every little bit helps."
There were plenty of people gathering around, and after checking out the scene and seeing how cheap the sandwiches, pancakes, and coffee were, quite a few ended up buying some.
For the first few days, I was worried I might not sell everything and end up wasting food.
So each day, I only made two batches of pancakes and a couple dozen sandwiches.
Except for the first day, when there were a few leftovers, everything sold out before eight in the morning after that.
Many of the customers who bought from me would say, "This old lady is so honest. She really works hard."
I was making a little cash, but it still felt like everyone was getting a bargain from me.
After all these years of making breakfast for free at home, this felt different.
Back then, my cooking always got picked apart. William and Charles said it was too bland, or that I never made anything new.
Only now did I realize that my food could be sold for cash.
People would say, "Good job, ma'am," and I knew it wasn't as bad as William and Charles always said.
After selling out all my breakfast, I was packing up to head home when I spotted a familiar figure not far away.
The morning rush was in full swing, people hurrying past in every direction.
William was standing there in the crowd, his eyes fixed on me.
He was blending in with the crowd, trying not to be noticed.
I had no idea how he found this place, or why he ended up here.
When I glanced over, our eyes met for a brief moment, and he looked like he'd seen a ghost.
He spun around in a panic, fumbling for his phone and pretending to make a call.
Unlike most people his age, who were hunched and frail, he was still upright and sturdy.
His hair was gray now, but he still stood straight, carrying himself with that old pride.
And he still caught people's eye in a crowd.
Back then, he was someone I looked up to.
But now, I turned away, pretending he wasn't there.
I picked up the griddle and some odds and ends, turned around, and made my way back toward the apartment complex.
I'd barely taken a few steps when a hand suddenly tugged at mine from behind.
When I turned around, William quickly released me, looking quite nervous.
After fifty years of marriage, this was the first time he'd reached out to hold my hand.
He looked everywhere but at me, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.
He looked awkward and uneasy.
After a long moment, he finally asked, "When are you coming back?"
William was probably afraid people would start talking if they saw him.
He kept his voice low, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
It was like reaching out to me felt humiliating for him.
Seeing him like that, I couldn't help but find it a little funny.
I guessed he finally realized there was no one left to do the laundry or cook at home.
I reminded him calmly, "I'm not coming back.
"William, unless it's about the divorce, let's not see each other again."
I turned and kept walking.
He hurried after me, his voice tinged with panic and frustration.
He said, "Divorce? Eleanor, since when did I agree to that?
"Enough with this drama. Come home with me."
I didn't bother responding.
As we neared the elevator, he was struggling to keep up, his breathing coming in short, labored bursts.
He was coughing as he walked, and his pace slowed down.
He called out to me, his voice tight with pain, "Wait... wait for me. My chest hurts. It really does."
William's heart was always weak. He couldn't take any excitement or stress, and he couldn't walk fast.
Whenever this happened before, I'd stop immediately to help him find a seat and catch his breath.
I'd bring him water, grab his medicine, and take care of him right by his side.
Because of his health issues, I ended up doing pretty much everything around the house for decades.
Sometimes, I figured that after all these years, even a dog would show me a little gratitude.
But William never did.
I stepped into the elevator.
As the doors slowly closed, I saw his back hunched from the ache.
He looked at me, clearly hurting and stunned. He was probably shocked that I could be so indifferent now.
He struggled to get the words out. "Ellie, you..."
As the elevator doors slid shut, I caught a glimpse of the helplessness and loneliness in his eyes.
But I wasn't about to turn back.
After fifty years, I'd stopped believing that warmth could change a cold heart.