One Saturday morning, Wade and I sat alone at our usual corner table before the morning rush. The bell chimed softly, and a young couple walked in—newlyweds who had just moved to town from the city. They looked nervous, holding hands tightly as they scanned the menu.
I stood up, wiping my hands on my apron, and walked over to them.
“Good morning,” I smiled gently, adjusting my flea-market wedding band. “Welcome to Margaret’s Table. If it’s your first time here, let me give you a piece of advice: order the cinnamon rolls, admire the photographs, and whatever you do, steer clear of the Terrible Toast unless you brought your own fire extinguisher.”
The young bride laughed, the tension instantly melting from her shoulders. “Is it really that bad?”
“Worse,” Wade chimed in, walking over with a pot of fresh coffee. “My mother used to say my step-father could burn water if given twenty minutes.”
“I resemble that remark,” I chuckled, pouring them two cups of coffee.
As they settled into their booth, talking softly and smiling across the table, I looked up at the large photograph of Margaret hanging near the kitchen entrance. Her eyes seemed to sparkle in the morning sunlight streaming through the front window.
Keep going, her letter had whispered in my memory.
I was keeping going. And for the first time in my life, I realized that love wasn’t something you finished giving when someone left the room. It was something you baked into bread, poured into coffee cups, and shared with anyone who happened to walk through your door.
