I thought it was a one-time thing.
But it was only the beginning.
A few days later, Godfrey brought a group of coworkers in. The tab was $1,280. Again, no payment. Just a signature and the same breezy "Thanks, sis."
The two visits combined totaled $3,918—more than what I'd been paying the dishwasher.
I slipped the dishwasher a generous bonus and gently let her go.
After that, once the restaurant closed for the night, I'd go out back and scrub every dish myself, sanitizing them one by one. By the time I finished, my back ached so badly I could barely stand upright.
But I told myself this small suffering was nothing compared to what Vincent endured, paralyzed for life. If I could help his brother get on his feet, maybe it would ease some of the guilt eating me alive.
Godfrey's tabs in the first month totaled $6,780. The second month, $5,360. After paying the chef's salary and covering rent and overhead, there was almost nothing left.
I gritted my teeth and kept going. I told myself it would get better once Godfrey was settled.
Vincent could see how exhausted I was, running the restaurant and caring for him at the same time. He suggested moving back to his mother's house to recover there.