Wyatt’s heart pounded as he glared at Hannah, the janitor, who stood frozen in the alley behind The Windy Fork, a half-eaten sandwich in her hand. The homeless woman beside her, frail in her worn coat, looked up with tired eyes. Wyatt’s mind raced—years of building his Chicago restaurant’s reputation could unravel if a food blogger snapped a photo of this scene.
— “Hannah, you realize this could tank us, right?” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the morning chill.
Hannah’s face flushed, her words tumbling out.
— “I just felt bad for her, Wyatt. I brought this from home, I swear!”
Wyatt barely heard her. His thoughts screamed about health code violations and snarky OpenTable reviews. He turned to the woman, his frustration boiling over.
— “You can’t keep coming back here!” he barked, snatching the sandwich from Hannah’s hand and tossing it toward the woman. It landed in the gravel, crumbs scattering.
— “Get out, and don’t show up again!”
Hannah gasped, clutching her apron, while the woman knelt slowly, picking up the sandwich and brushing off the dirt.
— “Please, don’t be mad at her,” the woman said softly, her voice steady despite Wyatt’s outburst. “She’s just being kind.”
Wyatt’s scowl deepened, but her words hit hard. He froze as she added,
— “A little bread gets you through tough times.”
His breath caught. That phrase—it was something his mom, Clara, used to say when he’d come home scraped up from bike crashes in Garfield Park.
— “Where’d you hear that?” Wyatt demanded, his voice low, almost trembling.
The woman blinked, surprised.
— “Just something I’ve always said. I’m Lorraine.”
Wyatt’s pulse quickened. Lorraine. His mom’s middle name was Lorraine. Could it be?
He stared at her weathered face, searching for traces of the vibrant woman he barely remembered. His anger fizzled, replaced by a gnawing unease. Wyatt’s chest tightened, his mom’s voice echoing in his head.
— “Wait,” he said, softer now. “Come inside. Let’s talk.”
Hannah and Lorraine exchanged stunned glances. Moments ago, Wyatt had been a storm of rage; now, he was offering compassion?
— “I owe you an apology,” Wyatt added, gesturing toward the restaurant’s back door. “Let me make it right with some breakfast.”
The kitchen staff gawked as Wyatt led Lorraine to a booth near the vintage jukebox, whispering to a server to bring coffee, pancakes, and a deep-dish pizza-inspired frittata.
Wyatt sat across from her, his mind a tangle of doubt and hope. Was this really his mom? He hadn’t seen her since he was five, but that saying about bread—it was too specific, too personal.
— “Lorraine, do you have family?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
Her eyes clouded.
— “Had a son once. And a husband, Ethan. But life… it broke us apart.”
Wyatt’s heart lurched. Ethan. His dad’s name. He leaned closer, hanging on her every word, desperate to untangle the truth from this stranger who felt so familiar.