Normally I would be annoyed by this, but it’s going to work to my advantage today, because Karina doesn’t look anywhere near ending her call.

“Hey Elise,” says my customer, rubbing her palms together, perusing the selection of artisan sandwiches prepared by a deli in Chelsea. “Is there anything new?”

Nope.

Up ahead, I watch Karina end the Zoom and slump forward onto her desk.

With urgency bubbling in my blood, I face my customer again with a smile. “They added honey to the mayo of the chicken club. Really transformed it. Total chef’s kiss.”

“Ooh okay, I’ll take that.”

“Fab.”

I place the sandwich on her desk, quickly make change and wheel my cart toward Karina’s glass office. I lied about the honey in the mayonnaise, but listen, she’ll convince herself she tastes it and I needed a swift exit. When it comes to food, the devil is in the details. People will order a meal because of pickled onions or the words avocado crema. I learned that when I tried to launch a food truck called The Kitchen Sink. A diner on wheels, serving everything from burgers to biscuits and gravy. I didn’t listen when my parents told me I needed food service experience and after a few hectic days at a street festival in Greenpoint, the Kitchen Sink…well it sank. There was only one silver lining and it was selling the truck I’d spent weeks fixing up and the profit paid my rent for six months while I figured out my next career.

Karina lifts her head and spies me coming, her dark eyes narrowing into slits, probably gauging my mood the same way I gauge hers. There are days when I simply deliver her tuna on whole wheat and leave. Today is not one of those days.

No. After last night, I’m even more determined to make the Times job happen. I need to know I’m capable of having aspirations, pursuing them and succeeding. I can’t take another failure or halfway accomplishment without my self-worth dwindling down to nothing. I’m dangerously close already. Not to mention my parents, who only gave me a tired smile when I informed them I was going to be a reporter. They’ve had it with me.

I never thought I would see the day. As long as I worked hard, they never cared if my efforts went into ceramics or coding. Hard work always pays off, they would tell me—and that advice came from experience. My mother emigrated from Mexico as a teenager. After months of teaching herself English by watching talk shows and sitcom reruns, she found work as a bilingual nanny, a position in high demand in southern California. Eventually she tutored children in her community so they could have an easier time finding their own opportunities. Now she operates her own childcare service. She’s dedicated. Amazing.

And my father, an Irish-American boxer turned marine, is the most reliable human I’ve ever met in my life. He’s never not answered his phone when I call. His handyman skills are unmatched—he can fix anything that’s broken. When he makes a promise, he keeps it.