By the time I reached King Street, my legs were trembling, but I kept walking toward the diner, toward Anna, toward the real test.
At 11:47 p.m., I stood outside Jerry’s Diner.
Through the window, I could see her — my youngest daughter, 28 years old, hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, white uniform with a name tag, carrying three plates balanced on her arms, smiling at customers like they were friends, not strangers paying for burgers.
She looked tired but happy.
I watched her for one more moment.
My daughter, who’d turned down Paris to stay here. Who called every Thursday. Who gave free refills and extra napkins and probably listened to every customer’s problems.
Then I walked toward the door.
The door chime rang when I pushed it open.
Anna was pouring coffee at table 7. She turned, and those blue eyes — Jon’s eyes — went wide.
“Mom.”
The coffee pot slipped from her hands and shattered across the floor.
She didn’t care.
She ran and wrapped her arms around me so tight I couldn’t breathe.
Not, Why didn’t you call?
Just, “You’re freezing. You’re soaking. What happened?”
“Anna…”
“Jerry!” she called.
An older man emerged from the kitchen. Sixty-seven. Gray hair. Grease-stained apron.
He’d been at John’s funeral. He took one look at me and went pale.
“Elizabeth. Take her home,” he told Anna. “I’ll cover your shift.”
“But Jerry—”
“Go,” he said. “Take care of your mother.”
Anna grabbed her purse and my bag, wrapped her arm around my waist, and we walked eight blocks through Charleston. She didn’t ask questions. She just held me up.
Finally, I told her the same story I told Rachel.
“I was diagnosed two months ago. Advanced stage. I’ve been in treatment. I had to sell everything to pay for therapy in Atlanta. $127,000.”
Her grip tightened.
“I went to Los Angeles to see Rachel. I thought she’d help.”
“What did she say?”
“She gave me $100 and a homeless shelter address.”
Anna stopped walking right there on the sidewalk.
Tears streamed down her face.
“She what?”
“She had a dinner reservation. She was busy.”
Anna pulled me close and held me while she cried.
Then she took my hand, and we kept walking.
Her apartment was a third floor walk-up. 320 square ft. One room — bedroom, living room, kitchen — and a bathroom the size of a closet. An old refrigerator that rattled.
But it was clean. Warm. Hers.
“You take the bed,” she said. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Anna, no.”
