Lazy rays stretch into the restaurant, drawing a hazy curtain over the skyline. Clouds turn into fluffs of pink cotton candy as the sun dips below the window, and the streetlights flicker on to signal the dawning night. Friday evenings are one of those things I find myself falling in love with even though it's a sad type of love, the type that reminds us nothing lasts long enough. But with everything slipping away, what can you do besides hold on to anything you can?

I roll my neck, stretch my fingers sore from filing singles at the cash register, and let my eyes wander.

A group of friends in the cushioned booths huddle around half-gutted chip bags and greasy soda cans, their voices barely containing their excitement about some girl group. A man by the sliding doors rocks a navy blazer, boasting a new job to his friend.

I try to pretend I've got someone to talk to, too. But who am I kidding? Even at school, I was lying to myself.

Did you make any friends today? Mom would ask me when I still went to school.

When she was still alive.

I always dipped my head and nodded, afraid of telling the truth, thinking it would make her happier.

But then she died, crushed by a car running a red light. Suddenly the only friend I had was gone, and I felt like the whole world had become the merciless school hallways I once dreaded. Everywhere I went, people stared at me, their looks a mixture of pity and disgust.

Be my therapist and tell me I'm being hard on myself, but it doesn't change the fact she's not here. You can forgive others, but yourself? It's like trying to say everything's fine when your world is falling apart.

I sigh, my nose wrinkling as the aroma of greasy fries and seared buns wafts through the air. Nights like today are our busiest hours, with crowds lining up for a quick bite. A crackling radio hums between conversations, occasionally drowned out by my voice cutting through the din.

"Order 57! Big Mac meal with a large Coke and medium fries for John!" I call out.

"That's me. Thanks." The man walks up to the counter and I slide the tray towards him.

Even after a year here, my body never seems to catch up with some customer's rapid-fire orders, one after another like a machine gun. I'm surprised it hasn't given me a headache yet.

"C'mon, hurry up!" yells someone in the line. "Do you not know how to read a goddamn menu?"

The woman in front of me shakes her head silently, hugging her coat tighter. It falls to her knees, heavy and worn like a hand-me-down. "One Happy Meal for my daughter, please."

I nod, punching the numbers into the cash register. "That would be seven ninety-nine, ma'am."

"Eight dollars?" Her eyes widen. She fishes through her wallet, hoping to find a crumpled ten she missed earlier, maybe a coupon even. But it's as empty as the look in her eyes. "Surely there's a discount for children, right? There's Free Fries Fridays today."

"That only comes with a minimum one-dollar purchase," I say quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Why can't we get the Happy Meal?" The little girl's head bounces up and down, her hands barely peeking over the counter.

"Tomorrow," her mother whispers, like she's unsure of the words. "I'll get you one tomorrow."

"You said that yesterday," she whines, pointing a stubby finger at me. "Why does he have to be so mean? Everyone else gets dinner, but we don't."

"He's just doing his job, sweetie." Her mother pulls her towards the tables. "Come, let's take a seat over here."

As I watch them, something gnaws at the knot in my stomach. It isn't pity; instead, I'm seeing my mother and I a few years ago, sitting at the same table. Ever since my father left, it was just the two of us, and McDonald's was our home. She would read stories to me like any other kid, kiss me goodnight, and make sure I was always full.

She loved me, but I never gave an ounce of it back. There was always something for me to complain about, always something she couldn't get. I loved McDonald's though, and I came back after she died, hoping to relive the happy memories.

I didn't know the sad memories would come with it, too.

"Emilia, would you take care of the cashier for a few minutes?" I turn to my coworker. "Grab me a Happy Meal, too."

"A Happy Meal for dinner?" She stares at me incredulously, but steps into the kitchen and grabs the box anyway. "Knock yourself out."

I slink over to the table, clutching the box close to my chest as if it can calm my racing heart. My breath hitches. The woman meets my eyes, shifting between the box in my hand and the wallet she's fidgeting with. I can't seem to utter a word though, afraid she'll think I'm only doing this out of pity. That I'm like everyone else looking down at her. I should just leave.

But she stares at me expectantly, her eyes pleading for me not to.

We're strangers, people bound to glance at each other once and never again. But right now, I want nothing more than for this stranger to smile and watch her daughter grow up and be happy, too. I want to let her know everything will be alright.

"I thought you might want this." I set the Happy Meal on the table. "Just in case you were hungry."

She traces a finger along the box, opening it gently as if to make sure every bit is real. A cheeseburger pops out, and the small fries container spills open like the smile cracking through her tired wrinkles.

"Thank you," she murmurs. "You don't know how much this means to me."

Maybe I don't. Her story is like my mother's—something I might never get to know. But as she nudges the fries toward her daughter and a toothy grin spreads across the little girl's face, I can't help but smile too.

I'm watching my mother and I again, but this time, she's smiling as well.