After Vincent was discharged from the hospital, he was confined to a wheelchair. Before the accident, he'd been the head chef while I worked as his sous chef and waitress. We'd only ever hired one dishwasher. Now the entire weight of the restaurant fell on my shoulders.
I hired a new head chef to replace Vincent. On top of managing the restaurant, I had to take care of his every need—feeding him, bathing him, helping him to the bathroom. In those early days, his mother and siblings still came around to check on him, and occasionally asked how I was holding up.
The first time Caroline came to me for a favor was about a month after Vincent's discharge. She took my hands, her voice earnest and pleading.
"Amanda, Godfrey just started at a new company. He needs to take his boss out for dinner. Let him use your restaurant, and make sure they're treated well."
I put together an entire table of our signature dishes.
Without asking me, Godfrey uncorked a bottle of premium whiskey.
The bill came to $2,638.
Godfrey didn't pay. He signed the tab, tossed out a casual "Thanks, sis," and left.
I told myself it was nothing. Family helped family. That's how it was supposed to work.