Gus lowered himself into the booth, unfolded the receipt with shaking fingers, and read the three words once. The color drained from his face. “Loretta,” he said quietly, “this is my son’s handwriting.” Mom only nodded. Gus took off his seed cap and set it on the table, and I noticed his hands trembled harder than hers ever had in forty-seven years.

Then he pulled an old flip phone from his coat and dialed a number he clearly knew by heart. “Brandon,” he said, his voice suddenly steel, “you have twenty minutes to be at the Maple Avenue Café. If you are not here, I will tell this whole town why I am ashamed to call you my son.” He hung up, looked at Mom, and said, “Sit down, Loretta. You deserve to hear the truth.”