“She died in November of 1979.”
His voice softened.
“Cancer.”
For a moment, he stared at the empty seat beside him.
“After the funeral, I couldn’t stand being in our kitchen on Sunday mornings. Everything reminded me of her.”
He gave a small shrug.
“So I brought Michael here.”
“Every Sunday?”
“Every Sunday.”
He smiled.
“He’d sit right there where you’re sitting, and we’d order Ruth’s breakfast.”
I glanced toward the kitchen.
“Mom didn’t start here until 1982.”
“No.”
Walt nodded.
“Mabel served us before that.”
He laughed softly.
“Your mother took over the morning shift after Mabel retired. First Sunday, I told her I wanted the usual from 1979.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Well, I wasn’t working here in 1979, so you’d better explain yourself.’”
I laughed.
That sounded exactly like Mom.
Walt smiled.
“I told her about Ruth.”
His eyes drifted toward the kitchen again.
