at a little restaurant on Fulton Street called the Blue Plate.

It had eleven tables, a narrow counter, and customers who returned almost every day.

Mom remembered how people liked their coffee, which regulars had lost their spouses, and whose children had recently graduated.

But what I remember most was her one unbreakable rule.

“Nobody leaves my section hungry, Frankie. Nobody.”

When I was twelve, I often sat at the counter doing homework while waiting for her shift to finish.

Sometimes a man would enter wearing worn-out shoes and carrying barely enough coins for a cup of coffee.

Mom would count his change, bring him soup, a sandwich, and something warm to drink, then quietly cover the difference using her tips.

One afternoon, I finally asked her why.

“Ma, we barely have enough money ourselves. Why are you paying for strangers?”

She stopped wiping the counter.

“Frankie, do you know