Semua Bab Is it Second Chance? : Bab 1 - Bab 7

Jamie's povfor the last six weeks, my identity hasn't been defined by my past mistakes, but by the work of my hands and the bow of my head. I was a waitress at Izakaya Mori, and I was good at it.Izakaya Mori wasn’t just a job; it was a sanctuary carved out of cherry wood and silence. Here, every movement was intentional, every service an art. I had spent countless hours practicing my posture, my gait, and the exact angle of my ojigi—the slight, respectful bow I offered every guest. Mark, who now treated me with a gruff but genuine respect, had drilled us mercilessly on omotenashi, the Japanese concept of wholeheartedly looking after guests. It required anticipating needs, not just reacting to them. I needed this job to feed my baby, and I needed it to prove to myself—and to the ghost of my former self—that I was capable of hard, honest work.I knew the difference between nigiri and sashimi, could differentiate seven kinds of sake, and even managed to offer small courtesies in haltin

Jamie pov the air in Izakaya Mori felt different. The tension wasn't gone; it had just settled like dust over everything. The pink and white uniform was back in the locker, thankfully, but the image of Larry’s professional, unyielding face remained. He hadn't broken me, but he hadn't forgiven me either. He had simply measured my service and found it merely "acceptable." I spent my entire shift waiting for the other shoe to drop—for Mark to pull me into the back office and explain that a high-profile chef had complained about the waitress with the fake purple hair. But Mark didn't mention Larry once. He was silent, observing, which was often worse. It wasn't until the following evening, after the dinner rush, that Mark called me over. He wasn't smiling. He was leaning against the service counter, wiping it down with a meticulousness that matched Larry's own precision. "Jamie," he said, not looking up. "I received the post-service critique from Chef Lawrence." My stomach tightened i

The past few weeks at Izakaya Mori had fundamentally changed me. The relentless, detailed focus required by omotenashi didn't crush me; it sharpened me. I still felt the familiar knot of guilt and anxiety whenever I left two-year-old Chloe alone, but the work now provided a genuine counterweight to that fear. I wasn't just surviving; I was excelling. The purple wig and the pink uniform—once badges of desperation—now felt like the costume of a professional role I had mastered. I knew the menu by heart, the wine list by vintage, and the specific angle required for the deepest, most respectful bow. Larry’s intense critique had been a gift, forcing me to build a foundation of competence so sturdy that no amount of past shame could shake it. More than that, I had finally found a community. The back-of-house staff, initially wary of the new waitress, had warmed up. Kaito, the sous chef who often worked under Larry, was a relentless perfectionist but had started sharing tips on maximizing