What Do You Need to Have a Good Life?

There was a café I used to sit in during winter.
No latte art. No curated playlists. Just silence interrupted by spoon clinks and the occasional cough from the kitchen.
The heat came from a rusting wall unit that wheezed like it was tired of trying.
Toast always arrived just slightly burnt, butter folding into the charcoal edges like it was trying to fix something too late.

She’d been working there since ’72. Same apron. Same hair bun held by a pencil.
I never asked her name. She never asked mine.
But on my sixth morning, unshaved and unread, she said:

“A good life? Something warm in your hands. Someone who knows when you’re quiet.”
Then she turned and disappeared into the back like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything.

---

We’re taught to chase the full cart.
Full schedule. Full inbox. Full fridge. Full body.
But I’ve seen people with six-figure watches tapping the table, restless, empty.
And people eating cold rice in a corner who still smile like the world hasn’t let them down.

So what makes a life good?

Maybe:

• A chair that fits your back.
• A book you’ve reread but keep returning to.
• A kitchen that smells like garlic at 6 p.m.
• A voice that says “Come home” without needing to raise its volume.

Maybe it’s a dog that waits for you at the door.
Or a playlist made just for you.
Or a friend who texts “Just checking in” when you’ve been off the radar too long.

---

We want it to be profound.
But life doesn’t ask for big answers. Just honest ones.

You don’t need a mountain.
You need a hill you can walk every day.
You need to sweat for something that makes you feel proud—even when no one’s clapping.
You need to wake up knowing someone would notice if you didn’t.

---

The café is gone now.
Boarded up, windows clouded with time. No sign. No farewell.

But I still remember how the margarine melted too fast.
How the cup stayed warm just long enough.
And how, for ten quiet mornings in a row,
I wasn’t lonely.
I wasn’t striving.
I was alive in the most ordinary way.

Maybe that’s what a good life is.
Not constant joy.
Not constant progress.

Just presence.
Just softness where the world expects hardness.
Just enough.