I happened to be there.
Michael was sitting two booths away.
He looked up.
Then said quietly,
“Sir, she offered to replace it. There’s no need to talk to her that way.”
The man grumbled.
But stopped.
Mom saw the exchange.
She said nothing.
Just refilled Michael’s coffee.
But I noticed the little smile she tried to hide.
Walt eventually became too unsteady to drive himself.
Michael started picking him up every Sunday.
At first, they arrived at seven fifteen.
Then seven thirty.
Then eight, because Walt insisted on finding his seed cap before leaving the house.
Mom always saved the booth when she could.
And every Sunday, she brought them the usual.
Two eggs.
Hash browns.
Rye toast.
Apple butter.
And one pancake on a separate plate.
Walt never stopped calling it breakfast from 1979.
A year later, on Mom’s sixty-ninth birthday, Michael surprised her.
He didn’t bring an expensive gift.
