His name was Mr. Halloran, and for seven years he was the first customer through the door of the diner where I’ve waited tables most of my life. Same booth, same black coffee, same scrambled eggs, same scowl.
He never once said thank you. He complained the coffee was cold when it was steaming. He left me a single dollar, if he left anything at all. The other girls refused to take his table.
But I kept smiling at him. I’d top off his coffee and ask about the weather and get nothing back but a grunt, and still, every morning, I’d say, ‘Good to see you, Mr. Halloran.’ Something in his eyes told me he was the loneliest man alive.
One January, he stopped coming. I asked around and heard he’d passed in his sleep. I said a little prayer for him over his empty booth and figured that was the end of a sad, small story.
Then, a few months later, a man in a gray suit walked into the diner during the lunch rush and asked, ‘Are you the waitress who served Edward Halloran?’ My heart started to pound. I wiped my hands on my apron and said that I was.
THE STORY CONTINUES ON THE NEXT PAGE… 👇👇👇
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