Then it starts to feel right.  They talk on the phone; she writes a letter to her unborn baby that she finally has a best friend.  Russell and Fillion give us every reason to want these two to be together and slowly divulge all the reasons they cannot.  Dr. Pomatter, after all, is a man, and the men here are either nasty, stupid, or some combination of the two.  There's Earl, of course, and there's also Old Joe (Andy Griffith, in a really nice persona-based performance), the diner's owner and occasional customer, who's as crotchety as can be.  Somewhere underneath his prying and barked orders, he does care about Jenna, but it takes until after his final moments on screen to realize how much (the revelation is touching although taken too much for granted).

Even Dr. Pomatter, who's supposed to be Jenna's charming, nice-guy escape, is cheating on his wife, who, in the brief glimpse we see of her late in the film, is also a sweet, loving woman.  It all fits in the film's ultimate concept of where Jenna should be, but it is a shame that a script that cares so much about lonely people ignores its male characters' own emotional isolation (yes, that includes Earl, who is so troubled, it's clear something's going on behind his actions).  The film is about Jenna, though, and it has a keen sense of female bonding and maternal fear ("Ride of the Valkyries" plays as she watches a mother attempt to deal with her demanding son).  It's never in doubt where the film is going, but Shelly's script is affectionate and full of blithe humor.  The ending wraps up its complications far too easily, just to fit in with Old Joe's advice to Jenna: "Start fresh.  It's never too late."  A more appropriate theme is brought up by Jenna's (unsympathetic, of course) boss (Lew Temple), who, when asked if he's happy, responds "I'm happy enough."  In the end, that seems to be the real, simple theme: live to be happy with what you have.

The final shot is perfectly composed—the image of mother and daughter (played by Shelly's daughter) walking down a heavily wooded path is symbolic without overdoing it—and Shelly's patience to let it play out before the credits roll shows a promise that will never be fulfilled.  Indeed, the final minutes of the film are genuinely affecting in spite of its reliance on sudden changes of heart, clean breakaways, and easy answers.  Waitress is full of verve, warmth, and a genuine love of life, and it is a fitting eulogy to a life cut short.