Chapter 7 - Purple Stars
One year later, Mom took me to a restaurant opening.
Not Sterling’s Bistro.
A new place.
Warm lights.
Big windows.
A kitchen where employees laughed instead of whispering.
Mom was now general manager.
She wore a dark blue suit.
I wore a purple dress.
Vincent arrived twenty minutes before opening.
Luca followed him.
Daniel was behind them.
I ran over.
“Mr. Kane!”
Vincent looked down.
“Five and a half?”
“Five and three quarters.”
He sighed.
“This is becoming difficult to track.”
I hugged him.
He froze for half a second.
Vincent Kane was apparently better with dangerous men than children hugging his legs.
Eventually, he patted my shoulder.
Mom approached.
“Thanks for coming.”
“I was promised dinner.”
“You're paying.”
Vincent looked offended.
“I invested in the building.”
“And tonight you're a customer.”
He looked at me.
“She's become powerful.”
“I know.”
Mom smiled.
Then Vincent noticed something framed on the wall beside her office.
He walked toward it.
It was the original crumpled paper.
77 DAYS — $5,430.30
And beside several dates were faded purple stars.
Vincent stared at it.
“You kept this?”
Mom nodded.
“I almost threw it away.”
“Why didn't you?”
She looked at me.
“Because Rory told me not to.”
Vincent turned toward me.
“Why?”
I walked over.
“Because Mommy said numbers tell stories.”
Mom crouched beside me.
“They do.”
I pointed at the stars.
“Those were the bad nights.”
Vincent looked at them.
“Yes.”
“But Mommy says they're different now.”
“How?”
I thought about it.
“They remind us we don't live there anymore.”
Vincent became quiet.
Mom stood.
“Every employee here gets transparent hours, overtime, paid sick days, and their paycheck on schedule.”
Vincent smiled slightly.
“Seventy-seven days early, comparatively.”
“Very funny.”
The doors opened.
Employees began welcoming customers.
One of the servers approached Mom.
“Mara? There's a problem with table nine's reservation.”
“I'll handle it.”
Another employee called from the kitchen.
“Delivery invoice needs approval!”
“Two minutes.”
Mom looked at Vincent.
“Welcome to management.”
She hurried away.
Vincent watched her.
Then he looked at me.
“You know, Rory, I've negotiated contracts worth millions of dollars.”
“Okay.”
“I've sat across from people who thought they could intimidate me.”
“Okay.”
“I've dealt with some very difficult situations.”
I nodded.
Then he pointed toward the framed paper.
“But nobody has ever walked into one of my meetings with purple stars and demanded justice for their mother.”
“I didn't demand.”
“No?”
“I asked.”
Vincent considered that.
“That's true.”
I climbed into one of the dining chairs.
“Were you scared?”
He almost laughed.
“Of you?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Not even a little?”
Vincent glanced toward Mom.
She was giving instructions to employees, checking reservations, answering questions, and somehow smiling through all of it.
Then he looked back at me.
“Maybe a little.”
I grinned.
Mom returned.
“What are you two talking about?”
“Nothing,” Vincent and I said together.
She looked suspicious.
Then a server approached with three menus.
Vincent pulled out Mom's chair.
“Sit down, Mara.”
“I’m working.”
“Your restaurant opens in two minutes. If you don't eat now, you'll skip dinner.”
Mom paused.
That sentence meant something different to all three of us.
She slowly sat.
Vincent handed her a menu.
“Tonight you eat.”
Mom looked at him.
Then at me.
Her eyes became shiny, but she smiled instead of crying.
“Tonight I eat.”
I grabbed a purple crayon from the children's cup on the table.
On the paper placemat, I drew one enormous star.
Mom laughed.
“What’s that one for?”
I looked around the restaurant.
At the employees getting paid for their work.
At Mom's new office.
At Vincent pretending he wasn't smiling.
Then I answered.
“For tonight.”
Vincent lifted his glass.
“To tonight.”
Mom lifted hers.
“To never skipping dinner again.”
I raised my apple juice.
“And chicken fingers.”
Vincent nodded.
“Obviously.”
Our glasses touched.
One year earlier, I had walked into a room full of men everyone feared carrying nothing but a crumpled sheet of paper.
I hadn't understood money.
I hadn't understood power.
And I definitely hadn't understood who Vincent Kane really was.
But I understood one thing.
My mother had worked seventy-seven days.
She deserved to be paid.
Sometimes adults make simple things complicated because they think nobody will challenge them.
Mr. Sterling thought my mother was alone.
He was wrong.
Because sometimes the person who finally says something isn't powerful.
Sometimes she isn't rich.
Sometimes she isn't even tall enough to see over the dinner table.
Sometimes she's four and a half years old.
May you like
And she brings receipts.
THE END
