Elena makes the announcement on a quiet Thursday morning, three months after she first walked into Marlene's Corner with her guilt and her black coffee and her desperate, drowning apologies.
The café is unusually peaceful. Sophie is behind the counter, ostensibly helping Marlene but mostly eating the broken cookies and offering unsolicited opinions about the optimal arrangement of the pastry display. Kevin is in his corner booth, his laptop open, documenting the morning's events with his usual clinical precision. Lucas sits beside me, his shoulder warm against mine, his ears that soft, contented pink that means he's exactly where he wants to be.
Elena arrives at her usual time—seven-oh-two, Kevin notes—but instead of heading to the counter to put on her apron, she walks to our booth and stands at the edge, her posture uncertain but resolute.
"Can I talk to you all for a minute?" she asks. "There's something I want to tell you."
