Mom looked down.
“He deserved a chance.”
“I got fired two months later.”
I blinked.
“That doesn’t sound like a successful rescue.”
Alaric laughed.
“I deserved that.”
Mom shook her head.
“The owner served spoiled seafood.”
“I told him.”
“You shouted at him.”
“He needed emphasis.”
“You threw the pan.”
“Again, near him.”
This time Mom laughed harder.
For the first time since the insult, she looked alive again.
Then Alaric’s expression softened.
“After I was fired, Molly helped me get another kitchen job.”
Mom waved one hand.
“Anyone would have.”
“No.”
His voice became quiet.
“They wouldn’t.”
Mom looked uncomfortable.
“That was more than forty years ago.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He turned slightly.
“Look behind you.”
We both turned.
Several framed photographs hung on the wall.
One showed a much younger Alaric standing in a cramped diner kitchen.
Beside him was a young woman with thick brown hair and a huge smile.
My mother.
