Wyatt stormed into his office at The Windy Fork, a framed photo of the Bean on his desk, clutching Lorraine’s coffee mug like it held the key to his past. His heart pounded as he sealed it in a Ziploc bag, grabbing a spoon she’d used for good measure. Sarah, a server cleaning nearby, froze, her eyes wide.
— “Wyatt, you okay?” she asked, clutching a tray.
— “Just stay there!” he snapped, his voice tight with urgency. Without explaining, he bolted out, heading straight for Northwestern’s genetic testing center. Lorraine’s story—her son Wyatt, her husband, his late father, Ethan, the bread saying—had cracked open a wound he thought he’d buried. He needed proof.
That night, Wyatt sat in his Evanston home, the glow of Lake Michigan through the window, and spilled everything to his wife, Lily. Her eyes softened, but her jaw tightened when he mentioned his grandparents.
— “You know, Wyatt, I always suspected they weren’t as sweet as you thought,” she said, sipping her wine.
— “What do you mean?” he asked, leaning forward.
— “They didn’t like me at first. Called me a gold-digger, said I was chasing your North Side money. I kept quiet so you wouldn’t fight with them.”
Wyatt’s stomach churned.
— “They said that? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Lily shrugged.
— “They were your family. I didn’t want to hurt you. Besides, they’re gone now.”
Wyatt’s mind spun. If George and Evelyn had trashed Lily, could they have framed Lorraine, his own mom, to steal him away? The thought made his chest ache. For days, he paced The Windy Fork, glancing out windows, hoping Lorraine would return. He cornered Hannah, the janitor.
— “If you see that woman again, call me right away,” he said, his tone softer now.
— “I won’t bite your head off, I promise.”
Hannah nodded, relieved.
— “Will do, Wyatt.”
Waiting for the DNA results felt like torture. Wyatt couldn’t focus—every clink of a plate, every laugh from the dining room, grated on him. When the lab envelope finally arrived, his hands shook as he tore it open. The words hit like a freight train: Lorraine was his mother. At 50, Wyatt had found the woman he’d mourned as dead. He sat, staring at the lake, imagining Lorraine’s smile. Shock gave way to a fierce need to help her, to make up for lost years.
But Lorraine was gone. She hadn’t returned to the restaurant, and Hannah hadn’t seen her by the Chicago River warehouse. Wyatt’s hope dimmed, but he refused to give up. He called the Chicago PD, checked shelters, even hospitals, describing Lorraine’s worn coat and silver hair. Weeks dragged on, each dead end a punch to the gut. Then, a call from John H. Stroger Jr. Hospital.
— “We’ve got a homeless woman here,” a nurse said, her tone clipped. “Hit by a car near a CTA stop. Bad shape.”
Wyatt’s heart leapt.
— “Is her name Lorraine?”
— “No ID, but she matches your description.”
Wyatt grabbed his keys, praying he wasn’t too late to save the mom he’d just found.