The food arrived
far later than I had hoped.
The driver’s eyes,
lacking warmth,
brushed past mine
as if I were a burden.
No smile.
No “thank you.”
No farewell.
Just silence
and departure.

Still,
I’ll tip at least 20%.

The waitress forgot my drink.
Twice.
Frustration steamed from her skin.
Each step, obligation.
Not welcome.
Cold fries,
no silverware,
and a gaze that said,
“You’re the problem.”

And yet,
I’ll still tip at least 20%.

A sour tone.
A wrong order.
A weary face that never met mine.

Still–20%

Not for flawless service.
Not because I felt seen.

Here’s the reason:
I’ve lived behind that mask.
Carrying a stack of pizzas in one hand
and dragging my “interesting”  life in the other.
I’ve smiled through storms,
while drowning inside.

I’ve been given grace
when bitterness covered my hands.
I’ve been warmed
while offering cold.
Lifted, while feeling down.

The world spins,
not by precision,
by compassion.
Not by perfection,
by mercy.
It’s not performance
that sustains us,
it’s kindness
that makes no demand to be earned.

So if my 20%
can speak louder than judgment,
may it whisper this:

Love still shows up
when it doesn’t have to.
Kindness still counts
even when it’s inconvenient.
And grace
is the only tip
I can’t afford not to leave.