“Your father doesn’t do anything wrong these days,” the waitress told me.
In a way, that answer bothered me more than anything else he could have said.
My father, Tom, had been a widower for several years. During that time, he invited several women to the same Italian restaurant, always choosing the same quiet table in the corner. None of these encounters seemed to lead anywhere. After one evening, the women simply vanished from his life.
I always thought my dad was struggling to come to terms with the death of my mother, Maggie. But I never understood why he kept returning to the same restaurant.
One afternoon I finally decided to ask.
The waitress immediately recognized me and discreetly led me to the table where my father was sitting. She then pointed to an old photo hanging on the wall.
In the photo, my parents were still young men. My father stood next to my mother, both smiling at the camera. There was another woman in the photo, but her face had been deliberately blurred over the years.
I looked at him in surprise.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The waitress hesitated for a moment before reaching under the table. She carefully pulled out a small envelope hidden there.
My name was written on the front.
Rachel.
This handwriting undoubtedly belonged to my father.
Before I could open it, a woman with silver hair sitting next to the counter spoke in a low voice:
“Please don’t do this.”
I turned to her.
Her name was Helen.
And this was the woman in the photo.
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