Alaric pulled out the empty chair beside us.
“May I?”
Mom nodded.
For several moments, the three of us sat quietly.
Then Alaric looked at the unfinished tiramisu.
“That’s all you ordered?”
“It came before dinner.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Mom shrugged.
“I’m sixty-five.”
Alaric laughed.
“That definitely sounds like you.”
I looked around.
“So this really is your restaurant?”
“For twenty-three years.”
Mom slowly studied the room.
“You actually did it.”
“Eventually.”
Then Alaric pointed toward the wall behind us.
“Look.”
We turned.
Several framed photographs hung beneath the warm lights.
One showed a much younger Alaric standing inside a cramped kitchen.
Beside him was a young woman with thick brown hair and a huge smile.
My mother.
I walked closer.
Below the photograph was a small brass plaque.
It read:
FOR MOLLY, WHO TOLD ME I BELONGED IN A KITCHEN BEFORE I BELIEVED IT MYSELF.
Mom stared at it.
