“Goodness. Look who’s here.”
He smiled.
“Your mother still making you eat breakfast?”
“Somebody has to.”
He chuckled.
I sat across from him.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I looked at the receipt.
“I’m sorry about what Michael wrote.”
Walt shook his head.
“Don’t apologize for my son.”
I hesitated.
“Mom said you’ve been ordering the same breakfast since 1979.”
He looked toward the kitchen.
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
Something changed in his face.
Not sadness exactly.
Something older.
He folded his hands on the table.
“My wife, Ruth, loved this place.”
I knew Walt had been widowed.
But I’d never heard much about his wife.
He smiled faintly.
“She ordered the same breakfast every Sunday. Two eggs, hash browns, rye toast, apple butter. And one pancake for our little boy.”
“Michael?”
Walt nodded.
“He was eleven.”
I looked down at the table.
