For twenty-six years, my husband had the same joke about my job.
At least, he called it a joke.
I never did.
Whenever I came home after a long shift at the restaurant and rubbed my tired feet, Robert would look up from the television and smile.
“Tired from carrying plates?”
Sometimes he said it in front of our children.
Sometimes in front of friends.
And sometimes, when he wanted people to laugh, he added:
“You should try doing real work sometime.”
People usually gave a small laugh.
I learned to smile too.
My name is Linda. I was fifty-four years old, and I had worked at the same family restaurant for almost three decades.
I started there when our daughter was still a baby.
At first, it was supposed to be temporary.
Robert had an office job, and he always reminded me that
