The Empty Plate
No one was demanding my money.
No one was measuring my worth by what I could pay for them.
The empty plate in front of me was not a punishment or an ultimatum.
It was just an empty plate, waiting, in the ordinary way of restaurants, to be filled.
And a moment later the waiter returned and served a beautifully prepared dish onto it, and I laughed out loud, a bright, genuine, unburdened laugh.
“I’m perfectly fine, Paula,” I said, and I meant it completely.
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