very morning in secret to keep the management from knowing. One day, however, he failed to show up: the note the soldiers gave me clattered the floor beneath my boots, and black automobiles pulled up in front of the café in place of the child.
I scrubbed the tables, laid out the cups, and acted as if nothing was wrong every morning. The same faces, the same coffee scent, the same bell ringing over the door—everything seemed to be replaying itself.
I saw the boy one day. About 10 years old, small, and carrying a bag that appeared to be heavier than him. He consistently arrived at precisely 7:15, took a seat in the farthest corner, and placed an order for just a glass of water.
I put a plate of pancakes in front of him on the fifteenth day.
I pretended it was an accident and stated, “Made too many by mistake.”
After giving me a long glance, he mutely muttered, “Thank you.”
I’ve been bringing him breakfast every day since. He never revealed his identity or the reason he was parentless and alone. The boy just ate and was always grateful.
Then one day he failed to show up. I continued to wait while staring at the door until I heard engines outside. At the entryway, four black SUVs came to a stop. Uniformed men entered and silently gave me a letter.
The plate dropped out of my hands as soon as I read the first lines. There was utter silence in the café.
That day is still fresh in my mind. 9:17 a.m. Four black SUVs halted at the entrance as the air outside seemed to get denser. Step by step, men in uniform came into the room, seemingly bearing not just papers but also the fate of a person.
After removing his headgear, one of them came up to me and said he was trying to find the woman who fed the boy every morning. My mouth became parched. “That’s me,” I answered.
He pulled out a letter, folded. His voice faltered a little.
Adam was the boy’s name. His dad served in the military. He lost his life while serving.
“Grateful to the woman from the café who fed my son,” he wrote before he passed away. She restored the sense that someone still remembered him, something the outside world had taken away.
My hands trembled hopelessly as I finished reading the letter. The spoons stopped clinking, and everything else froze. The troops gave a salute. And unable to speak, I simply stood there.
It took me a long time to get over that day. I read the letter again and again, as though I was scared that if I let go of it, the words would vanish. At times, it appeared as though he might still arrive, sporting the same backpack and the same bashful grin.
I got another letter a few weeks later. by the same officer. It was a brief note and a picture of the same youngster sitting on the grass beside a uniformed man.
As it happened, his father’s friend, a soldier whose life his father had once saved, had adopted him.
He has a house now. At the end, it stated, “And he frequently remembers the woman who fed him every morning.”
