understand that the damage extended far beyond money.

That spring, Madison sent me a handwritten letter.

She explained that her community-service work at a food bank had forced her to confront her own impatience toward people who needed extra help.

One day, she’d assisted an elderly man with a cane, carrying his groceries all the way to the bus stop.

She wrote that she finally understood why her treatment of Mrs. Kowalczyk had been so hurtful.

I kept the letter.

I wasn’t ready to respond.

But I hoped she had truly changed.

Around that time, I made another major decision.

I sold Rosie’s Two.

The suburban restaurant was profitable, but I’d realized I no longer wanted to spend my life expanding a business while neglecting the people who made it meaningful.

Denise asked whether I was certain.

“I opened Rosie’s to honor my mother,” I told her. “Then I got