When Clarisse first tied the black apron around her waist, she told herself it was only temporary.
Temporary until her father’s dialysis was fully paid. Temporary until her younger brother finished college. Temporary until she could finally go home for good.
But like many Overseas Filipino Workers, temporary had a way of stretching into years.
Clarisse worked as a waitress in a busy restaurant in Doha, Qatar. The restaurant was famous for its fusion dishes Arabic spices blended with Asian flavors, served under golden lights that made everything look more expensive than it probably was. It wasn’t the kind of place she had imagined herself working in when she studied Hospitality Management back in Laguna. She had once dreamed of managing a hotel. Instead, she carried trays of biryani, kebabs, and mango sticky rice to strangers.
Still, she wrote her name tag proudly.
The first weeks were overwhelming. Orders came in rapid bursts. Customers snapped fingers or raised eyebrows to get attention. The kitchen shouted numbers in a mix of Arabic and English. Plates clattered. Coffee machines hissed like angry snakes.
“Table twelve needs water!” The supervisor would shout.
“Bill for seven!”
“Where’s the extra sauce?”
Clarisse moved quickly, weaving between tables, balancing heavy trays on one arm. Her feet ached by the end of every shift, but she smiled through it all.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Enjoy your meal, ma’am.”
“Thank you for coming.”
Smiling was part of the uniform.
Back home, her mother used to say she had a “customer-service face” warm and approachable. It helped. Tips were unpredictable, but kindness sometimes made a difference.
Clarisse shared a small apartment with three other Filipinos working in different restaurants, At night, they would sit on the floor eating rice and canned tuna, laughing about difficult customers.
“Today someone complained their soup was too hot,” her roommate Aileen groaned. “It’s soup!”
Clarisse laughed, but inside she felt the exhaustion setting deep into her bones.
Every payday, most of her salary went straight to the Philippines. Hospital bills. Tuition fees. Groceries. She kept only enough for rent and basic needs.
Her father’s illness had changed everything. Before leaving, she remembered sitting beside him in the hospital.
“Anak, you don’t need to go abroad,” he said weakly.
“I want to,” she insisted, though fear twisted in her stomach. “It’s just for a while.”
She carried that promise with her like a fragile glass.
One evening during Ramadan, the restaurant was especially busy. Families gathered after sunset to break their fast. Long tables filled with platters of food. The air buzzed with conversation and the aroma of spices.
Clarisse hurried from table to table, refilling drinks and clearing plates. Her uniform clung to her back from sweat.
At one table sat an elderly woman dressed elegantly in black, her silver hair tucked neatly under a scarf. She watched Clarisse carefully.
‘You are always smiling,” the woman said gently in English as Clarisse poured tea.
Clarisse blinked, surprised. “Yes, ma’am.”
‘Are you happy?”
The question caught her off guard.
She hesitated only a second. “I am grateful, ma’am.”
The woman studied her face, then nodded slowly. “Gratitude is stronger than happiness.”
When the family left, the elderly woman pressed something into Clarisse’s hand. It was a folded note with a generous tip inside.
“For your smile,” she said.
Clarisse felt tears threaten to rise but forced them back. She couldn’t cry in the dining area.
Later that night, in the staff locker room, she allowed herself a moment. Not because of the money, but because someone had seen her not just as a server, but as a person.
Still, not every shift brought kindness.
There were customers who clicked their tongues impatiently. Some avoided eye contact entirely, as if she were part of the furniture. Once, a man scolded her loudly for a delay caused by the kitchen.
“This is unacceptable!” he snapped.
‘I’m very sorry sir.” she replied calmly, though her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
After he left, she retreated to the storage room for a minute, inhaling deeply to steady herself.
You’re here for a reason, she reminded herself. Endure.
On her days off, Clarisse would explore small corners of the city quiet parks, waterfront promenades, grocery stores that carried Filipino products. She saved coins to buy dried mangoes and instant pancit Canton, tiny pieces of home.
Video calls with her family were both comfort and ache.
“Pa looks stronger,” she said one evening.
“Yes,” her mother replied. “Because of you.”
Her brother waved his exam results at the camera. “I passed!”
Clarisse beamed. Moments like that made the long shifts worth it.
One rainy evening rare in Doha the restaurant was nearly empty. The soft tapping of rain against the windows felt almost nostalgic. Clarisse stood by the counter, polishing cutlery.
A young couple entered, drenched and laughing. They apologized for being wet and slightly late for their reservation.
“It’s okay,” Clarisse assured them warmly. “Welcome.”
Throughout the meal, they chatted with her, asking about her home country and how long she had worked there. Their curiosity felt genuine, not intrusive.
“Do you miss home?” The woman asked gently.
“Everyday,” Clarisse admitted.
Before leaving, the couple handed her a small envelope.
“Open later,” they said with a wink.
Inside was a handwritten note: Thank you for making us feel welcome. Your kindness made our night special.
There was also a tip, but it was the words that lingered.
That night, walking back to her apartment under the damp glow of streetlights, Clarisse felt something shift inside her. She realized that while she was serving food, she was also serving comfort, warmth, connection.
Her job wasn’t just about plates and bills.
It was about moments.
Years passed. Her brother graduated. Her father’s treatments stabilized. The small family house back in Laguna was renovated fresh paint, sturdier roof, a new dining table she paid for with her tips.
One afternoon; after finishing a particularly long shift, Clarisse sat alone in the quiet dining area before closing. The golden lights reflected off polished tables. The restaurant that once felt intimidating now felt familiar.
She thought about the countless faces she had served. The tired workers, celebrating families, lonely travelers, newlyweds on dates. She had been part of their stories, even briefly.
Her contract renewal form lay in her locker.
Temporary, she had once said.
Now, she wasn’t sure.
Because somewhere between refilling water glasses and carrying heavy trays, she had discovered her own strength. She had learned patience, grace under pressure, and the art of smiling even when her feet hurt and her heart longed for home.
Being an OFW wasn’t easy. It meant missing birthdays and Christmas mornings. It meant swallowing pride sometimes. It meant counting days and currencies carefully.
But it also meant resilience.
That night, she called her mother.
“Ma,” she said softly, “Pa sounds better.”
“Yes,” her mother replied. “And it’s because of you.”
Clarisse looked around the quiet restaurant, at the tables she had wiped thousands of times.
“No,” she said gently. “It’s because we didn’t give up.”
As she untied her apron and folded it neatly, she felt tired but proud.
She might be a waitress in a foreign land, carrying plates for strangers. But she was also a daughter, a sister, a provider.
And every smile she served carried more than politeness.
It carried love across oceans.
