The click of the lock echoed through the silent dining room. The woman’s smile finally wavered. “This is ridiculous,” she snapped, grabbing her handbag. The chef did not move. He reached into his apron pocket and pulled out a folded photograph, worn at the edges. “Do you recognize this girl?” he asked quietly. The woman glanced at it, and her face went pale. “Where did you get that?” she whispered.

The chef turned the photo toward the room. It showed two teenage girls in aprons outside a small bakery, one of them heavyset and beaming. “Thirty years ago, you worked beside my sister,” he said, his voice shaking. “You took her recipe book, you mocked her size every day, and the week she quit, she stopped eating.” My mother pressed her hand to her mouth. Then the chef lifted his eyes and said, “Tonight, I finally get to say her name.”