I walked into the café like I did every morning—keys in one hand, apron in the other. The air smelled like cinnamon buns and dark roast, but something felt off. There she was, by the window at the birthday table—pink streamers, unopened cake, fake daisies, and a quiet sadness in her eyes.
She’d been coming in nearly every day for eight years, usually with her grandkids in tow. But today was different. Her daughter never stayed long, always rushing out with barely a word, and now… on her birthday, they hadn’t come at all. My chest tightened. When I asked if she was waiting for her family, she gave a soft smile and said, “I invited them. But I guess they’re busy.” That moment settled heavy on all of us. Something had to be done—but what happened next none of us could’ve predicted.
