Mom folded her hands.
“I’ve watched Walt come into that café every Sunday since I was twenty-four.”
“I’ve watched him grow old.”
“I’ve watched Michael grow up.”
“And I knew there was a story behind that family his son had probably forgotten.”
She smiled sadly.
“I wasn’t trying to get revenge.”
“Then what were you trying to do?”
She looked down at the receipt.
“I wanted someone who loved Michael to remind him of the kind of man he used to want to be.”
That answer stayed with me.
For months afterward, Michael continued coming to the café.
Sometimes alone.
Sometimes with Walt.
He learned the names of the younger waitresses.
Asked about their families.
Stopped taking business calls at the table.
And whenever somebody treated the staff rudely, he became noticeably uncomfortable.
One morning, a customer snapped at a young waitress because his toast was burned.
