Didn’t make a speech.
Didn’t hand her a check.
He brought Walt to the café carrying an old photograph.
It showed Main Street in the winter of 1983.
Snow along the curb.
A faded pickup truck parked outside.
And standing beside the café entrance was a young woman in a white apron.
My mother.
She was twenty-five.
Her hair was pulled back.
She was smiling.
Beside her stood a much younger Walt.
And a skinny teenage boy wearing a coat several sizes too big.
Michael.
On the back, Walt had written:
Darlene, thank you for making sure my boy never felt poor at your table.
Mom stared at the photograph for a long time.
Then she started crying.
Michael looked embarrassed.
“Dad found it in an old shoebox.”
Walt grinned.
“I find all kinds of things in shoeboxes.”
Mom laughed through her tears.
Then she placed the photograph beside the register.
