The officer blinked.

Then looked from the biker to the elderly waitress.

“Your mother?”

The biker didn’t move.

The waitress’s hands trembled around the napkins.

“She doesn’t like trouble,” he said. “So she apologizes even when people hurt her.”

The officer’s face shifted.

For the first time, he looked at the old woman properly.

Her gray hair pinned back.

Her tired eyes.

The small scar near her wrist.

His mouth opened slightly.

“No…”

The waitress froze.

The biker noticed.

“What?”

The officer took one step closer to her, his voice suddenly smaller.

“Margaret?”

The waitress stopped breathing.

The diner went completely still.

The biker turned toward her.

“Mom?”

Her eyes filled with tears before she could hide them.

The officer’s voice cracked.

“My father told me you left us.”

The waitress shook her head slowly.

“I was told my baby died.”

The biker stared at the officer, then back at her.

The broken glass glittered between all three of them.

The officer reached into his uniform pocket with shaking fingers and pulled out an old baby photo.

The waitress covered her mouth.

The biker’s face went pale.

Because written on the back was the same name she had whispered every birthday for thirty years.

Her first son.