I might look like a sweet little girl on the outside, but let me tell you, it's a totally different story on the inside.

Everyone thinks that the name, "Bella", means some mild-mannered, shy, meek little thing. So when I open my mouth, I am on the receiving end of some fairly offended looks. But that's the best thing about it. I can't stand pretentious facades, and it gives me a real kick to shock the hell out of people. Let them think I'm the waitress with a heart of gold that is just going to grovel and be sappy-sweet thankful for any little tip you condescend to leave me. Sometimes, I have to run back into the kitchen because I'm laughing too hard from the expressions on customers' faces.

I come from the school of hard knocks. I don't give a shit what you think of me. So don't think you can just wipe your ass on my hard-earned tip money when I just got through bending over backwards to make sure you got your drinks on time and that your food was fresh from the kitchen. I'm twenty-two years old and I support myself and my daughter on my waitress income and what I get from my student loans. I'm trying to finish up school, too. I don't have much left, and then I can kiss this crappy job goodbye. At least the tips are pretty good and the hours are flexible enough that I can work around my school schedule, and still be able to get a good babysitter for Renesmee.

That's my daughter's name. I named her by combining my two grandmothers' names, Renee and Esme. Those two women were responsible for any true upbringing I received, and from them I learned what I know about life. They alternated taking care of me when my mom would yet again run off with some sack of shit she picked up from who knows where. My real dad – I don't know what happened to him; no one would ever tell me, even his own mother. I quit asking questions about him when I was around 15, 16.

So, long story short as to how I came to be a momma: I made good grades all through school, earned scholastic scholarships, went to college, hooked up with a moron, got knocked up, moron disappeared, quit school, had baby, started working here at this sports bar/grill, and after Renesmee was a year old, I started getting all my ducks in a row to go back and finish school. Yes, I know, typical story, nothing new there. I would never regret my daughter, ever; but at the same time, yes, I know I am a statistic now.

So, there. Now you know about me. That was my life. Up to a certain point.

That certain point would be the night that I was working the six to midnight shift. It was a Saturday night, and it was October. College football is King in the fall months, on Saturday nights, and we were swamped. I was so busy running my legs off that by the time I noticed him, he had already turned the first page in the menu. And I thought it was just another customer at first, because his head was bowed down reading the menu.

I approached his table, and he looked up. I almost couldn't get my introduction out of my mouth when I looked in his eyes.