“Nobody said we should give everything away,” I replied.
“You named this place after your mother. Fine. But sentiment doesn’t pay the bills.”
I looked at the photograph.
“Do you know why my mother fed people who couldn’t pay?”
“Frank…”
“Because she knew what hunger felt like.”
My mother had once spent an entire winter choosing between heating our apartment and buying enough groceries. Years later, when I opened Rosie’s, she insisted we keep a simple soup special affordable enough for almost anyone.
She never expected us to lose money feeding the neighborhood.
She believed nobody should be humiliated for having less.
“There’s a difference between running a profitable restaurant and making people ashamed to walk through its doors,” I said.
Kyle crossed his arms.
“Then maybe I’m not the right person to manage this place.”
“You’re not.”
He looked surprised.
“I’m ending your employment here.”
