He picked his city center location, the first one he had launched, where his mother once assisted with baking pies. As he stepped onto the pavement, the hum of traffic and morning pedestrians surrounded him. The aroma of frying bacon wafted through the air. His pulse quickened. Inside the café, the recognizable red seats and patterned tile floor welcomed him.

Jordan walked to the counter. Denise barely glanced at him. “Customer service number’s on the receipt,” she said flatly.

“I’m not calling customer service,” Jordan replied. “I’m asking a simple question. Is this how everyone is treated, or only those you assume have no money?”

The young cashier crossed her arms. “You’re exaggerating.”

Jordan removed his cap. “No. I’m Jordan Ellis.”

A hush fell over the diner. Customers turned. The cook froze mid-flip. Denise stepped back.

Jordan’s voice was steady, but firm. “I built this diner from nothing but a food truck and a dream. My mother taught me that anyone who came through these doors deserved kindness — whether they had a fortune or a few coins. You just violated that principle.”Continue reading…