“Did your kids call you today?”
Martha’s eyes flicked up.
Just for a second, something like shame crossed her face—like I’d asked her if she’d been picked for a team and she didn’t want to admit she was still standing there.
“No,” she said. “Not today.”
Then she lifted her chin, trying to make it sound casual.
“It’s early. The coast is three hours behind. They’ll probably call later.”
But her hands gave her away.
Her fingers tightened around the mug until her knuckles turned pale.
She still believed in later the way a kid believes in Santa—because admitting the truth hurts worse than waiting.
When I left her house, she hugged me at the door.
And she pressed something into my palm.
A single yellow rose.
Not fresh—artificial. The stem was wrapped in green tape, the petals slightly faded.
“Frank used to buy these,” she said softly. “Yellow roses every year. I found this one in a box. I thought… maybe you should have it.”
I held the rose like it weighed more than it should.
“Martha—”
“Just take it,” she insisted. “It’s not a sad thing. It’s a thank you thing.”
I slid it carefully into my truck, on the dashboard where I wouldn’t crush it.
Then I drove to work with that yellow rose staring at me like a tiny sun.
And for the first hour in the auto shop, I couldn’t focus.
Because I kept thinking about those printed birthday cards.
How the world will send you a coupon before your own family sends you a call.
Around lunch, my coworker, Dean, walked in wiping grease off his hands.
He nodded toward the rose on my dash.
“New girlfriend?” he joked.
“No,” I said. “Just… someone I met.”
Dean grinned. “That’s what they all say.”
I would’ve let it go, but something in me was buzzing. Like a story had hooked itself into my ribs and wouldn’t let go.
So I told him.
About the diner.
The empty chairs.
The manager asking for the seats back.
Me walking over and pretending.
Martha crying happy tears.
The staff singing.
Dean listened, chewing slowly like he was processing a tough cut of meat.
When I finished, he shook his head.
“That’s messed up,” he said. “Her kids didn’t show?”
“Nope.”
Dean whistled. “Man. People are cold.”
“Or busy,” I said, surprising myself.
Dean raised an eyebrow. “You’re defending them?”
“I’m not,” I said. “I just… I don’t know the whole story.”
Dean leaned against the workbench. “I know enough. You don’t leave your mom alone on her birthday. That’s… basic.”
From the other bay, our manager overheard and chimed in without looking up from the paperwork.
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