The kitchen sounded different without Debbie.
It wasn't quieter exactly — the clang of pans, the sizzle of oil, the low roar of customers — all that was the same. But there was something missing in the air.
No arguments. No tension. No storm cloud in the corner.
And somehow… that felt worse.
Sasha wiped her hands on a towel, staring at the dish drop.
It was clean. Still. Waiting.
Her shift had just started, and for the first time since she'd taken the job, she felt like she was the one being watched.
Luis walked past, holding a tray of chopped onions.
"Still standing. That's a win."
Sasha smiled faintly. "You say that every shift."
"This time I mean it. You're in charge now."
"I'm not in charge."
Luis gave her a look. "Debbie's gone. Carla trusts you. That's as close to 'in charge' as it gets."
Sasha didn't respond.
Because now, there was no one left to blame.
An hour later, the rush began.
Two big tables, drink orders piling up, a tray of appetizers forgotten in the pass. Sasha moved quickly, but something felt off.
The new dishwasher — a quiet kid named Max — was slow.
He didn't know where to stack bowls. He kept asking where things went. Dishes piled up, and Sasha's frustration grew.
"Max, stack the plates by size. That's not hard."
He nodded, red-faced. "Sorry."
Luis raised an eyebrow. "Easy, boss."
Sasha froze. "I didn't mean— I'm just—"
Max dropped a plate. It shattered.
Sasha closed her eyes.
That night, Sasha couldn't sleep.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above her. The hum of the city outside her window usually soothed her. Tonight, it felt like noise without rhythm.
Her phone buzzed — another job alert.
She ignored it.
Instead, her mind drifted to the kitchen.
To Max, dropping that plate.
To Carla, pulling her aside like a teacher scolding a child.
To Debbie, walking out for the last time, silent, proud.
Sasha had thought Debbie leaving would fix everything.
But now? It felt like someone had taken the scaffolding from under her anger.
The next day, she arrived early.
No apron. Just her clipboard and a black coffee.
The dish station was spotless.
Reed nodded to her as she walked by. "Morning, boss."
She cringed at the word but didn't correct him.
At 9:30 a.m., Carla called her over.
"You adjusting?"
Sasha nodded. "Trying."
Carla leaned on the counter. "You know, leadership's not about being perfect. It's about being honest."
Sasha sipped her coffee. "I wasn't honest with myself. I thought I was better than Debbie."
Carla smiled faintly. "Maybe you are. Maybe you're not. But you're still here — and that counts."
That evening, Sasha stayed late, finishing dishes herself, even though she didn't have to.
When she turned off the lights, she stood for a moment, staring at the clean dish drop.
She whispered, "I'm not Debbie."
Then added, "But I'm not who I used to be either."
And that, somehow, was enough.