“They have sections, Aunt Chloe.”
After he disappeared upstairs, I looked at Chloe.
“Why is a waitress letting him organize tables?”
She hesitated.
“He likes helping, Kait.”
Something about the answer bothered me, but everyday life interrupted the conversation. Two years later, Leo returned with ketchup on his sleeve.
“What happened?”
“I filled bottles, Mama.”
I stared at Chloe.
“You mean Marcy lets customers refill ketchup now?”
“He was helping.”
“Again?”
For one second, Chloe looked uncomfortable. I almost pressed her for answers, but Leo called for me from upstairs. By the time I returned, Chloe was leaving. I never asked again.
I should have.
On the morning Leo turned eighteen, I asked where he wanted his birthday dinner.
“The diner!”
Chloe nearly spilled her coffee. I laughed and told her we were finally going to see the famous place she’d been taking him for ten years, but instead of looking pleased, she began suggesting alternatives.
