My black coffee had been sitting untouched for fifteen minutes, but I took a long sip anyway. I barely tasted it. My mind was buried under unpaid invoices, overdue emails, and a quiet pressure in my chest I couldn’t quite name. That’s when my four-year-old son, Nolan, tugged on my sleeve. His big hazel eyes looked up at me.
“Milkshake?” he asked, his voice soft but full of hope.
It was such a simple request, but in that moment, it felt like a lifeline. My phone buzzed again with another work call I didn’t want to answer. I looked at the pile of bills on the counter. Then I looked back at Nolan.
I forced a smile. “Yeah, buddy. Let’s go get that milkshake.”
We drove to O’Malley’s Diner, a cozy little place that hadn’t changed in decades. The checkerboard linoleum floors, faded red booths, and old jukebox gave it a nostalgic charm. Their milkshakes, though, were still the best in town.
Nolan climbed into the booth across from me, full of energy. He tapped his fingers on the table while we waited for the waitress. When she arrived, he gave his usual order: extra cherry, vanilla, no whipped cream. I didn’t get anything—I wasn’t there for the milkshake.
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