I was a struggling college student working at Bellamy’s, an expensive restaurant where a single dinner could cost more than I spent on groceries for two weeks. Every dollar mattered because my mother, Evelyn, had disappeared four months earlier, and I was spending nearly everything I earned searching for her. I printed missing-person posters, called the police, and traveled home whenever I could afford the gas. But every day brought the same painful silence. My mother had always been organized, careful, and predictable. She never left without telling someone where she was going. When she vanished, her purse, phone, medication, and clothes remained at home.

That Friday evening, an older couple sat in my section. The woman wore a green dress, and her silver-haired husband kept checking his phone. They ordered oysters, lobster, steak, cocktails, and an expensive bottle of wine. Their bill came to $407.63. I placed the check beside them and stepped away for a few minutes to serve another table. When I returned, their booth was empty. The money was gone, too. My manager, Jett, refused to check the security cameras and reminded me that restaurant policy required servers to cover unpaid bills. I used the money I had saved for groceries and electricity. I finished my shift, reached my car, and broke down crying.