“Sam? Are you up?” My mom yells from the bottom of the stairs.

“No,” I mutter, pulling the covers over my head. A minute later, I can feel her standing over my bed.

“Wake up! It’s 10 o’clock. Let’s get breakfast!” She pulls up my window shades, inviting the sunlight into my bedroom. It makes my eyes hurt.

“Come on, Sam!” She whines. She sounds like a child. But she’s so excited that I can’t bare the thought of disappointing her. 

“You really don’t know how to wake somebody up,” I say, as I kick off my blankets.

“I think I do. You’re up, aren’t you?” She smiles. “Get dressed. We’re going to Heinemann’s in 5 minutes.”  

Fifteen minutes later, we pull into the restaurant parking lot.

“Go get a table!” My mom nearly pushes me out of the car. As I walk toward the front door of the restaurant, I notice a group of elderly ladies huddled around the entrance.

“Such a tragedy!” One exclaims.

“Stan and I have been coming here for 60 years!” Another cries.  

“What’s going on?” I ask the ladies.

“Oh dear. Heinemann’s is closed. For good!” She points to a sign on the door. The font is tiny and cursive, but the word “closed” is bold and capitalized. 

“Heinemann’s Restaurants is sorry to announce that all Heinemann’s Restaurants, our Commissary and Office have closed. Heinemann’s thanks all of our great customers and employees who have dined and worked at Heinemann’s for the past eighty-five years.”

Another woman taps me on the shoulder. I turn around.

“Where will we play Mahjong?” She asks.

“I … I don’t know.”

“Are they closed today?” My mom asks, walking toward us.

“Closed forever!” The Mahjong woman yells.

“What?” She doesn’t believe them. She shoots me a look that says, “These ladies are just old and confused, right?” I point to the sign.

“Oh no.” She whispers. Her eyes fill with tears.

“Mom? Are you crying?” I ask, touching her shoulder.

“I’m not crying.” She sniffles.

“Okay,” I reach into my purse, “Here’s a tissue, though. Just in case. I know you’re not crying, but …”

“Let’s go, Sam.” We walk in silence to the car, then we sit for a few moments in the parking lot.

“Your dad and I took you to Heinemann’s for your first breakfast when you were just a week old.”

“So you didn’t feed me breakfast for a week? Isn’t that kind of neglectful?”

She snorts.

“When you and Jordan were kids, we had breakfast with Grandpa here every Saturday.”

“I know. I loved that.” I grab her hand.

“And now that Grandpa’s gone, and you guys don’t live here anymore, your dad and I come here every Saturday. In fact, we were just here last week. I don’t even think the employees knew. That hostess, Mary, was talking about her plans to finish up her degree at UWM. Those poor employees. They’ve been there for so long. I’m sitting here, feeling sorry for us, but what about them?”

She shakes her head, and turns on the car. We drive across the street, to a corporate coffee shop. My mom spends most of the meal on the phone, breaking the news to our friends and family members. I pick at my scrambled eggs while I think about change. Everybody’s talking about change, it seems. Barack Obama talks about change. My friends talk about change. Change is good. Vote for change. But what happens when change is bad? When change makes you lose your job? When change makes you cry?

Can you like change selectively? Can you like good change: the kind that teaches you new things, takes you to new places, helps you grow?

My mom hangs up the phone.

“Sorry, honey. I just wanted to tell Aunt Cindy and Uncle Max what happened,” She explains.

“What’d they say?” I ask.

“They didn’t care so much. They never liked the food there. You know what I’ve learned, though?” She pauses.

“What?”

“Never become a creature of habit. You’ll get stabbed in the heart.”

“You’re being very dramatic.”

“I mean it!” She slams her hand on the table.

“I think you can. Become a creature of habit. But I think you have to prepare yourself for all kinds of change. Change is like … it’s like the weather. You’ve got to dress appropriately.”

“Interesting theory. Can we go? I can’t stand this place.” She says, a little too loudly. “I’ll make us pancakes.”