Claire stared at the address.
Then her mouth opened slightly.
Claire hadn’t been there in years.
“I know this place.”
It was a diner about twenty minutes away.
Claire hadn’t been there in years.
When we arrived, an older woman behind the counter looked at Claire and froze.
“Oh, my goodness.”
Claire frowned.
Claire started crying before she even knew why we were there.
“Ruth?”
Ruth came around the counter and hugged her.
“I haven’t seen you since your mother died.”
Claire started crying before she even knew why we were there.
Ruth disappeared into the back and returned with a cardboard box.
“Your father brought this to me six months ago.”
Margaret’s handwriting covered every card.
Inside were recipe cards.
Dozens of them.
Margaret’s handwriting covered every card.
Claire picked one up and made a sound like the air had been knocked out of her.
“Cinnamon rolls.”
Ruth smiled sadly.
Claire pressed the card to her chest.
“Your mother’s Christmas recipe.”
Claire pressed the card to her chest.
“I thought these were gone.”
She sat in that diner and cried.
Later, in the parking lot, she told Noah, “After Mom died, I stopped doing Christmas breakfast.”
Noah leaned against the car.
She looked down at the recipe card.
“Why?”
