My name is Corinne. I’m 37, a single mom, and I work long shifts at Millie’s Diner — a tiny place with chipped coffee mugs, a jukebox stuck in the ‘60s, and regulars who tip in crumpled bills and stories you didn’t ask for. Life’s simple, a little worn at the edges, but it’s ours.
My son Theo is 10 going on 40. People always tell me he has an old soul. He’s the kid who thanks the bus driver, waves at garbage collectors, and rescues beetles from sidewalks like they’re VIP guests. He’s gentle in a world that sometimes forgets to be.
So when food started disappearing faster than usual — peanut butter, bread, apple slices — I just assumed he was hitting a growth spurt. But then his lunchbox kept coming home spotless. Too spotless. Not a crumb left.
One afternoon, I got off work early and took the long way home. That’s when I spotted Theo slipping behind the old hardware store with his backpack. Curious, I followed.
He knelt beside a leaning fence, pulled out his sandwich, and tore it in half. The second half he set near a rusted dumpster — and out crawled the saddest, skinniest stray dog I’d ever seen. Matted fur, ribs showing, but the moment it saw Theo, its tail wagged like pure hope.
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