“You’re in a photograph,” he said.
The words echoed in my mind.
“What photograph?” I asked.
But he hesitated, grabbed his drink, and left.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Later, I checked the order system. His name was Eli.
That night, I sat in my car staring at his name, trying to convince myself it meant nothing.
But for the first time in years, I felt something stronger than grief.
Hope.
He came back the next day.
I made his coffee and asked, “Can we talk?”
He seemed uneasy but stayed.
“You said you recognized me—from a photo,” I said.
He sighed. “It was years ago. A picture of you holding a child. My mom got nervous when she saw me looking at it.”
My heart started racing.
“What’s your mother’s name?”
“Marla.”
Everything went cold.
Marla had been a nurse at the hospital where Howard died.
Calm. Gentle. Always telling me to rest… to trust the staff.
At the time, I thought she was kind.
Now, it felt rehearsed.
I asked Eli to meet me after my shift.
I didn’t accuse him of anything. I just told him about my son.
His habits. His laughter. The way he called pigeons “city chickens.”
And the birthmark.
Eli went very still.
