I opened the café like I did every morning—keys in one hand, apron in the other. The scent of cinnamon buns filled the air, sweet and familiar. It was early and quiet, with just a few customers already seated. And then I saw her.
Miss Helen was sitting at the big round table by the window—the one we usually saved for birthdays and special occasions. Pink streamers hung along the edges, and a cake box sat beside her purse. A plastic vase held a few artificial daisies. She’d clearly been waiting for a while. But she was still alone.
Miss Helen had been a regular for nearly a decade—ever since I started here fresh out of high school. She always ordered tea with two sugars, left a neatly folded tip under the saucer, and brought a calm presence with her every time. Most days, her grandkids, Aiden and Bella, would tag along—full of energy and muffin debates. Miss Helen never seemed to mind. She was patient, warm, and endlessly kind.
But today, on her birthday, she was by herself.
I walked over with a smile. “Morning, Miss Helen. Happy birthday.”
She turned to me with a gentle smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you, sweetheart. I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”
“Are you waiting on your family?” I asked.
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