My black coffee had been cooling untouched for fifteen minutes, but I took a sip anyway. It was lukewarm and bitter—not that I noticed much. My thoughts were tangled in unpaid bills, unanswered emails, and a quiet, nagging tightness in my chest I couldn’t quite define. That’s when I felt a gentle tug on my sleeve. My four-year-old son, Nolan, was looking up at me with those wide hazel eyes.
“Milkshake?” he asked—softly, but with all the hope in the world.
It was such a small thing to ask, yet in that moment, it felt like an anchor. My phone buzzed again with another work call I didn’t want to take. I glanced at the stack of envelopes on the table. Then I looked at Nolan again.
I managed a smile. “Yeah, kiddo. Let’s go grab one.”
We headed to O’Malley’s Diner, a little neighborhood spot that hadn’t changed in years. The black-and-white tile floors, worn red booths, and old-school jukebox gave it a timeless feel. But their milkshakes? Still the best around.
Nolan slid into the booth across from me, full of wiggles and excitement. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop while we waited. When the waitress showed up, he gave his usual: vanilla with no whipped cream, and extra cherry. I didn’t order anything for myself—I wasn’t there for the milkshake.
