The warm hum of conversation filled the cozy La Rosa, a family-owned Italian restaurant tucked on a quiet street. The aromas of garlic, fresh basil, and baking bread drifted through the air as waiters moved quickly between tables.
By the window, Eleanor, a frail woman in her late seventies, sat in a wheelchair. Her white curls framed her soft face, and her cardigan was neatly buttoned against the chill of the air-conditioned dining room.
Across from her sat Peter, her son in his mid-forties, sharply dressed, his eyes darting impatiently between his watch and his phone as he typed out rapid texts.
Eleanor, on the other hand, sat quietly, her hands folded, smiling softly as she observed the lively restaurant around her—the young couples, families, and elderly regulars enjoying their meals.
“Peter,” she said gently, “Do you remember when your father used to bring us here? You were just a boy…”
Peter sighed, barely looking up. “Yeah, Mom, I remember.”
But he didn’t, not like she did.
As the waiter arrived with the menus, Eleanor’s face brightened. “Oh, they still have the risotto your father loved.”
Peter barely glanced at the menu. “Mom, just pick something simple. We don’t have all night.”
Eleanor’s smile faltered. “But, dear, I was hoping we could take our time tonight.”
Peter’s voice lowered, but his words were sharp. “I have a conference call at nine. I told you this already.”
