I open the book again and finish the story, my voice quieter as the last few pages pass. By the end, her eyes are heavy, blinking slower, her focus slipping between the words and the pull of sleep.
I close the book and set it on the nightstand beside her, the lamp giving off a warm glow across her face. She turns onto her side, her cheek nestling into the pillow as I pull the blanket up, smoothing it along her shoulder and down her arm.
“Goodnight,solnyshko,” I whisper, leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead.
“Goodnight, Papa,” she murmurs.
I linger for a second, watching her, listening as her breathing slows and deepens, the tension leaving her completely as sleep takes over. Then I step back, reaching to turn off the lamp. The room falls into dim shadow, the faint glow from the hallway spilling in just enough to keep the edges visible.
I move to the door, pausing momentarily before I pull it closed behind me, leaving her in the quiet.
3
MAGGIE
As soon as I open the door, the heat of the Magnolia Street Diner surrounds me, thick with the smell of fried chicken, fresh biscuits, coffee that’s been brewing since sunrise, and sugar turning into something sweet in the kitchen. The bell above the door jingles, but it disappears into the noise of voices, clinking silverware, scraping chairs, and someone calling out an order like they’ve said it a hundred times already today.
It’s loud, busy, alive, and it feels like home.
Jules slides into the booth across from me, iced coffee in hand. He sets it down, his eyes moving once around the room, quickly taking inventory without making a show of it.
“Still smells like grease and poor decisions,” he says.
I reach for the sugar caddy and push it toward him. “You say that every time.”
“I’m consistent,” he replies, tapping two sugar packets against the table before opening them. “It’s a good quality.”
“You keep comin’ back,” I tease, glancing at the specials on the chalkboard above the counter.
“That’s because your mama feeds me like she’s trying to save my soul.”
“She probably is,” I smirk.
“Good. It needs work.”
A waitress passes, greeting us by name, and Jules nods once in acknowledgment before leaning back into the booth, one arm draped casually along the back.
“There you are,” comes a voice that’s warm and a little worn from the day.
Mama’s already coming over, weaving through the tables with two plates balanced on her arm and a coffee pot in her other hand. She moves quickly but never seems rushed, each step sure, like she knows exactly where she’s headed and how long it’ll take. She’s been at this since before I was born.
Her hair is pulled back in a low clip, medium brown with streaks of gray she’s never tried to hide. A few loose strands curl around her face from the diner’s heat. Soft lines around her eyes show years of early mornings and late nights, but they don’t take anything away from her. If anything, they make her look even more like herself.
Her uniform fits the same way it always has, apron tied tight and pen tucked behind her ear. There’s strength in the way she carries herself, in the set of her shoulders, and in how she balances everything without asking for help.
She smells like coffee, sugar, and the plain bar soap she’s always used when she leans down to give me a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hey, Mama,” I smile.
Her hand lingers just under my eye, her thumb brushing lightly, checking on me without saying anything. It’s quick, and most people wouldn’t even notice.
Jules tilts his head at her. “Miss Teresa.”
“Julian,” Mama says, one brow lifting slightly.
“You’re workin’ too hard,” Jules tells her.
