I barely had enough to pay my rent that month.
The restaurant — the Maple Street Grill — reeked of burnt coffee, bacon grease, and old vinyl banquettes steeped in decades of secrets. I was doing double shifts, wearing the same worn blue uniform every day, and smiling until my cheeks hurt. Tipping was random. My dreams were put aside.
That morning, the bell above the door rang out, and everyone seemed to notice it immediately.
He didn’t look like the regulars. Too much dressed to the nines. Too quiet. A navy blue suit that probably cost more than my monthly salary. He scrutinized the restaurant as if he were entering a museum room: curious, distant. The jukebox buzzed behind him, and a few regulars looked up, sensing that something was wrong.
He slipped into a booth near the window.
I picked up a menu and walked to the table, mentally rehearsing my routine. A coffee first. A smile. Do not stare at all.
« Hello, » I said. « May I buy you something to drink? »
« A black coffee, » he replied, absent-minded. He took a folder out of his briefcase and spread out some documents on the table, smoothing them carefully, as if they were more important than the meal.
When I came back with the coffee maker, he was already writing – the pen was moving quickly, confidently, as if he was used to it.
As I poured, my gaze fell on the page.
And then… Everything stopped.
At the bottom of the document was a signature.
My heart raced so hard that I thought I was going to faint.
I knew this handwriting. I had traced it as a child. On birthday cards. On the back are old photos. On a letter that I had kept folded in my wallet for years.
My father’s signature.
The same « R » skewed. The characteristic « M » buckle. The little frills he always added, even to sign shopping lists.
My hands started shaking.
« Excuse me, » I whispered before I could help myself. « This signature… it is my father’s. »
The man froze.
Slowly, he looked down at the document. Then he looked up at me.
His face faded.
His fingers loosened and the glass slipped out of his hands, shattering on the checkered floor. Shards of glass littered the ground. Coffee splashed on her polished shoes.
No one spoke. Even the jukebox seemed to stop.
« I’m sorry, » he said in a hoarse voice. « What did you just say? »
I swallowed. « This name. Robert M. Hayes. He’s my father. »
He stared at me as if he saw a ghost.
« It’s impossible, » he whispered.
The cook leaned out of the kitchen, annoyed. A few customers whispered. I knelt down to clean the glasses, my hands shaking so much that I had trouble picking up the pieces.
« Please, » the man said suddenly. Sit down. »
« I can’t. I’m working. »
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