“Dad, Can I Share With Them?”—Millionaire’s Daughter Points to the Single Mom at the Table Next to

The Arrival at Bernie’s Diner

The evening sun cast a golden glow through the windows of Bernie’s Diner. That old-fashioned place on Maple Street featured vinyl booths patched with duct tape and a jukebox that still played Patsy Cline.

Richard Morgan sat in his usual corner booth. His expensive suit looked somewhat out of place among the worn Formica tables.

His daughter Emma, just seven years old with blonde hair in a ponytail, sat beside him. Her small legs swung beneath the table.

Across from them, his nine-year-old son Daniel was focused intently on the menu. Though he already knew what he wanted, he studied the choices carefully.

Richard came here every Thursday evening. He did not go to the fancy steakhouse downtown where his business associates expected to see him.

He avoided the country club where memberships cost more than most people made in a year. He came to Bernie’s where the meatloaf was honest and the coffee was strong.

Nobody here cared that he had money. “Daddy, can I get the chicken tenders?” Emma asked, her voice soft and sweet.

“You always get the chicken tenders, sweetheart,” Richard said with a gentle smile. He reached over to adjust the napkin on her lap.

“That’s because they’re the best in the whole world,” she replied with absolute certainty. She believed this completely, the way children do.

Daniel looked up from his menu. “I’m getting the burger with extra pickles.”

Richard nodded, about to signal the waitress when the bell above the door chimed. He glanced up out of habit and his breath caught slightly.

A young woman walked in, maybe thirty years old, wearing a simple pink sleeveless top that had seen better days. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail.

Her face carried that particular kind of tiredness that comes from working too hard and sleeping too little. Behind her, a small boy clutched her hand.

He was maybe five years old, wearing a gray t-shirt that was slightly too big for him. Richard watched as they hesitated near the entrance.

The woman’s eyes scanned the diner, and he could see her lips moving. She was probably counting in her head.

She reached into her purse. Even from across the room, Richard could see her hands trembling slightly as she counted out coins and crumpled bills.

They sat down at the table right next to Richard’s family. The booths were close together in Bernie’s, close enough that you could hear conversations whether you wanted to or not.

The woman smoothed down her son’s hair with a mother’s automatic gesture. Then she picked up the menu.

Richard saw her eyes scan the prices. He saw the small frown that creased her forehead.

“Mommy, I’m really hungry,” the boy said. His voice carried that whine that comes when children are tired and their stomachs are empty.

“I know, baby. Let’s see what we can get, okay?” Her voice was steady, but Richard could hear the strain in it like a rope pulled too tight.

The waitress Betty, who had been working at Bernie’s for twenty years, came over with her pad. “What can I get you folks?”

The woman studied the menu again. “Could we… could we get one grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk and just water for me?”

Richard’s chest tightened. There was only one sandwich for both of them.

“Mom, what about you?” the boy asked, his young face confused.

“I ate earlier, sweetheart. I’m not that hungry. You have the sandwich, okay?”

She smiled at him. It was one of those smiles that mothers give when they’re lying to protect their children.

She was going without so her babies could have something. Betty wrote it down without comment, but Richard saw the sadness in her eyes.

She had seen this before in a town like this. You saw it more often than anyone wanted to admit.

Emma had been watching, too. Her blue eyes, so much like her late mother’s, were wide and thoughtful.

She looked down at the coins scattered on the table next to theirs. There was probably just enough for that one sandwich and milk.

Then she looked at her father. Richard saw something in her face that made his throat tight.

She tugged on his sleeve. “Daddy,” she whispered.

He leaned down so she could whisper in his ear. He had a feeling he already knew what she was going to say.