Six employees depended on the restaurant. Selling it would allow them to pay off their debt, but it would also take away their livelihood.
Eric remained practical.
“We can’t save all bankrupt companies because we feel guilty.”
“And does selling it solve everything?”
“Pay what you owe.”
“Furthermore, it cost six people their jobs.”
The manager, Paul, heard us and said that Nathan had been trying to fix things.
Then Eric did something unexpected.
“He lied to her,” she said in front of everyone. “She didn’t know Nathan was her father. I did. I helped her hide it until she died.”
The room fell silent.
“I prioritized her wishes over her right to know,” Eric continued. “Whatever happens with this restaurant , don’t blame her.”
It was the first time she stopped protecting Nathan’s reputation.
Three days later, Eric sent me a written apology. He offered to resign from his position as estate representative and to pay an independent attorney to review all the documents.
His apology ultimately cost him dearly.
I agreed to examine the restaurant’s finances.
For four months, Eric and I met twice a week. We discussed staffing, debts, operating hours, and whether saving Millie’s business was a matter of loyalty or guilt.
Finally, we found a solution. We sold a vacant lot behind the building and reduced our business hours until the remaining debts were manageable.
Trust developed slowly.
Eric confessed his mistakes to me before I discovered them. I learned that he had spent a large part of his savings on Nathan’s treatment. He knew that I was working two jobs while taking care of my mother.
Neither of the two truths erased what had happened.
But that changed the nature of our anger.
Later, Millie’s partnered with the hospice. Once a month, the restaurant served free breakfasts to the families of patients.
We didn’t change the restaurant’s name in honor of Nathan.
We left the corner table unchanged.
On my birthday, I arrived before they opened and found Eric sitting there with two slices of apple pie.
“I guess he finally got his table for two,” Eric said.
I looked at the empty seat in front of him.
Nathan manipulated me and denied me the chance to confront him. The fact that he missed me for years didn’t change his initial decision.
But the six weeks we shared had also been real.
Love did not erase anger.
Anger did not make love false.
I pulled a third chair closer to the table.
“No,” I said. “He doesn’t decide who belongs here.”
Eric examined the chair, then came over and sat next to me.
Before the doors opened, she placed Nathan’s letter, which had not yet been opened, on the table.
“I haven’t read it yet.”
“Because?”
“Because I know what he will ask me to forgive.”
“You don’t have to read it today.”
For once, neither of them allowed Nathan to control the timing.
We sat together until Rosa turned on the lights. Three chairs appeared side by side in the window.
Families from the palliative care center began to enter.
Nathan’s slice of cake remained in the center of the table.
Rosa looked at the three chairs, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with one more fork.
