I thought of my grandfather standing behind this very counter, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Why don’t you sit down?” I said, pulling out a booth. “I’ll make you something good.”
The man hesitated. “That’s too much. I don’t want to trouble you.”
“You’re not,” I said. And for the first time that day, I meant it.
I cooked like I was cooking for family. Pot roast, mashed potatoes, gravy made slow and thick. I even cut up a little plate of meat and set it down gently for the dog, who wagged his tail like he’d just won the lottery.
We ate together — three lost souls sharing one table.
His name was Walter. He didn’t say much about himself, but he listened when I spoke. Really listened. When I told him about my daughter, my voice cracked. I waited for the usual discomfort, the polite silence people offer when they don’t know what to say.
Instead, he reached across the table and said quietly, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You’ve been carrying all that alone, haven’t you?”
The words hit straight in my chest.
No one had called me sweetheart in years. No one had seen the weight I dragged behind me like a shadow.
When Walter finished eating, he tried to leave a few coins on the table. I slid them back into his hand.
“Come back anytime,” I said. “Both of you.”
He smiled — a small, grateful smile — and Pickles barked once, as if sealing a promise. Continue reading…
