“It’s not minimum wage,” I say weakly, hating how defensive I sound. “I make fifty pence over minimum.”
“Oh, well done. What an achievement.” The sarcasm is thick enough to cut with a knife. “Your father and I didn’t pay for your education so you could waste it making lattes.”
I didn’t finish my education. I dropped out in second year because I had a mental breakdown, because the pressure and expectations and constant comparisons became too much. But she conveniently forgets that part. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.
“I’m doing my best, Mum.” My throat is tight, my chest aching. I want to hang up. Want to tell her to leave me alone. Want to scream that I’m trying, I’m really trying, but everything is so hard and I’m so tired.
“Are you? Because it doesn’t look like it from here. When are you going to get a real job? Meet someone nice? Stop hiding away?” Her disappointment radiates through the phone, making me feel small and worthless.
But I don’t say any of that. I never do.
“I’ll see what I can do about Saturday,” I hear myself say, the words coming out automatically. Easier to agree than to fight. Easier to give in than to stand my ground.
“Good. Wear something nice, not those awful casual clothes you always have on. And do something with your hair.” She hangs up without saying goodbye. She never says goodbye.
I stand in the back room, phone still pressed to my ear, feeling like I’ve been hollowed out. Like she’s reached inside me and scooped out everything that matters, leaving only an empty shell behind.
You let people push you around. Smile and nod and swallow your anger.
Hex’s voice echoes in my mind again, and god, he’s right. He’s so painfully right. I just let my mother say all of that. Didn’t defend myself. Didn’t stand up for myself. Just took it like I always do, like a pathetic doormat.
The door swings open and Felix pokes his head in, his expression softening when he sees my face. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie, shoving my phone back in my pocket.
He gives me a look that says he knows I’m lying but won’t push it. Felix is good like that. “Come on. Morning rush is about to start.”
The next two hours pass in a blur of coffee orders and forced smiles. I make cappuccinos and flat whites on autopilot, my hands moving through the familiar motions while my mind is elsewhere. A woman snaps her fingers at me when I don’t respond fast enough to her order. A man talks on his phone the entire time I’m trying to serve him, holding up one finger to silence me like I’m an interruption rather than a person. Someone complains their coffee is too hot, as if I have any control over the temperature of freshly brewed coffee.
I smile through it all. Apologise. Make it right. Swallow my frustration as I’ve trained myself to do. Just like always.
Around nine-thirty, a man in an expensive suit walks in, already on his phone and barking orders at someone. He doesn’t look up as he approaches the counter, doesn’t acknowledge my existence beyond being an obstacle between him and his caffeine.
“Large black coffee,” he snaps, still not looking at me. His voice is sharp, impatient. Entitled.
“Sure thing,” I say with my customer service voice, the one that’s pleasant and empty. “That’ll be three pounds twenty.”
He tosses a five-pound note on the counter without looking, doesn’t even hand it to me properly, and keeps talking on his phone. I make his coffee as quickly as I can, the familiar routine automatic. When I set it carefully on the counter, I try to give him his change.
“There you go. Your change is…”
He grabs the cup without letting me finish, takes a sip, and immediately makes a disgusted noise, as if I’ve just served him poison.
“This is cold!” He slams the cup down hard enough that coffee sloshes over the side, creating a brown puddle on the counter. “I want a refund.”
I blink at him, genuinely confused. “I just made it, sir. It should be...”
“Are you calling me a liar?” He finally looks at me properly for the first time, and his eyes are cold. Contemptuous. Like I’m something he scraped off his shoe. “This coffee is stone-cold. I want my money back. And I want to speak to your manager.”
It’s not cold. I literally just made it thirty seconds ago. The steam is still rising from the cup in visible curls. He’s lying. He’s lying, and he knows I know he’s lying, and he doesn’t care because he thinks I’ll cave. Because people like me always cave to people like him.
“I can make you a fresh one if you’d like,” I offer, trying to keep my voice level and professional. Keeping myself small the way I’ve always been taught. Trying to de-escalate the way I’ve learnt.
“I don’t want a fresh one. I want my money back. And I want to speak to your manager. Now.” Each word is clipped and sharp, designed to intimidate.
My heart is pounding hard against my ribs. My hands are shaking slightly. This is it. This is the moment where I usually cave, where I apologise and give him whatever he wants just to make the conflict stop. Anything to avoid confrontation. Anything to make people like me.
I look at the man. I could apologise. I could call Felix over and he could deal with this, and earn the extra thirty pence an hour he gets for being shift manager.
