“No,” I said.
That was the truth.
I barely made it through the shift. I kept seeing the mark. Kept hearing the word photograph.
After closing, I checked the payment tablet. Mobile order. Name: Eli.
I wrote it down on a receipt and sat in my car staring at it.
Maybe it meant nothing.
But for the first time in 15 years, I felt something stronger than grief.
I felt movement.
He came back the next afternoon.
I saw him through the window and went cold all over again.
When he stepped up, I said, “Black coffee?”
He nodded.
I made it slowly, then said, “Can we talk for a minute?”
He tensed. “About what?”
He looked toward the door. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But you did.”
He let out a long breath. “It was an old picture. You were younger. Holding a little kid.”
My grip slipped on the mug.
He noticed.
I said, “Where did you see it?”
“At home. Years ago. It was hidden in a sealed envelope at the bottom of an old supply box. I only saw it once, but I remembered your face because my mom got scared when she caught me with it.”
My mouth went dry. “What did she say?”
“That you were someone who once tried to take me.”
I felt a chill move through me.
“What is your mother’s name?”
“Marla.”
I nearly dropped the mug.
Marla had been the nurse on Howard’s floor. Not the doctor. Not anyone I thought to remember afterward. Just always there. Soft voice. Calm face. Telling me to rest. Telling me the staff would handle everything. Once, when I was crying so hard I could barely stand, she told me, “Sometimes the kindest thing a mother can do is let go.”
At the time, I thought she was comforting me.
Now it sounded practiced.
I looked at Eli and said, “Will you meet me after my shift?”
He frowned. “Why?”
