Wyatt sat across from Lorraine in the booth at The Windy Fork, the hum of the vintage jukebox fading as her story poured out. Her voice, soft but heavy with pain, pulled him into a past that felt eerily like his own. Lorraine spoke of her son, little Wyatt, and her husband, Ethan, who’d died in a Chicago construction accident. She’d been a cashier at a Jewel-Osco in Pilsen, scraping by to keep their family afloat. Then, tragedy struck again.
— “After Ethan passed,” Lorraine said, her eyes distant, “his parents, my in-laws, came knocking. They demanded I hand over Wyatt. Said they’d raise him better. I told them no chance, he’s my kid.”
Wyatt’s hands tightened around his coffee mug, his heart racing.
— “What happened next?” he asked, barely breathing.
Lorraine’s face darkened.
— “They didn’t stop. A month later, my store got hit with an audit. Found thousands in ‘missing’ cash. I swear I never touched it, but the books pinned it on me. Next thing I know, I’m in court, sentenced to eight years for embezzlement.”
She paused, her fingers trembling.
— “In prison, I got word they stripped my parental rights. My Wyatt was gone, taken by his grandparents. When I got out, their old place in Austin was empty. No one knew where they’d gone.”
Wyatt’s mind reeled. His grandparents, George and Evelyn, had raised him, claiming his mom was “long gone.” Had they lied? Set her up? He swallowed hard, trying to stay calm.
— “Where’d you go after that?” he asked.
Lorraine sighed.
— “I tried rebuilding. Got married again to a kind man, Thomas, out in Joliet. But we couldn’t have kids, and when he passed, I fell apart. Moved to Peoria, worked at a diner. Then a fire took my trailer—faulty wiring. I lost everything.”
She leaned back, her voice quieter.
— “Someone offered me a job in Chicago, sewing at a factory with housing. Sounded perfect. But it was a scam. They locked us in a basement, took our IDs, made us work for nothing. I got sick, and they dumped me on the street. Been homeless since, about three years now. I crash in an old warehouse by the Chicago River. Your janitor, Hannah, she’s been sneaking me food. Don’t be hard on her, please.”
Wyatt’s throat tightened. Her story mirrored his life too closely—Ethan’s death, a son named Wyatt, even the in-laws’ names. His childhood longing for his mom battled his grown-up skepticism. He wanted to blurt out, “I’m your son!” but doubt gnawed at him. What if she was mistaken, or worse, playing him? He studied her weary eyes, seeing no deceit, just exhaustion.
— “I need to confirm something,” he said, standing abruptly. “Stay here.”
He grabbed the coffee mug Lorraine had used, told Hannah to pack her a to-go bag of food, including Italian beef sandwiches, and rushed to his office, his mind a storm of hope and fear.