Rain drummed softly against the café windows, blurring the city into a watercolor of grays and golds. I sat hunched at a corner table, my back aching from the morning’s pediatrician visit, my arms wrapped around little Amy—my sweet granddaughter, my last link to Sarah.
At forty, I’d thought I’d never have children. Sarah was my miracle baby, my one and only. At thirty-one, she’d been expecting her first child. But last year, she never came home from the hospital. She never even held Amy.Now it was just the two of us. Her boyfriend had vanished after the funeral, sending a tiny check each month that barely covered diapers. I was sixty-one, tired and stiff, but Amy had no one else.
The café smelled of coffee and warm bread. I hoped for a quiet moment to rest my back, to feed Amy before heading into the rain again. But the moment I settled her on my lap and whispered, “Shh, Grandma’s here,” she began to fuss—small, restless cries, the only language she knew.A sharp voice cut through the soft murmur of the room.
“THIS ISN’T A DAYCARE. SOME OF US CAME HERE TO RELAX, NOT TO WATCH… THAT.”
I looked up. A woman at the next table sneered at me, nose wrinkled in distaste.Heat rushed to my face. I rocked Amy gently, murmuring to her, willing the sting in my eyes to stay hidden.
Then the man with her—boyfriend, maybe—leaned forward, his words slicing through the air.
“YEAH, WHY DON’T YOU TAKE YOUR CRYING BABY AND LEAVE? SOME OF US PAY GOOD MONEY NOT TO LISTEN TO THIS.”Around us, conversations faltered. Eyes flicked toward my table. I felt every stare like a weight. Outside, the rain streaked down the glass like tears. Where could I go? Into the cold? With a bottle and a baby?
I fumbled for the bottle, my hands trembling. Amy whimpered against me.That’s when the waitress appeared—young, blonde ponytail, tray balanced on one hand. She didn’t meet my eyes.
“Ma’am,” she said softly but firmly, “maybe it would be better if you… finished feeding her outside.”
The bottle nearly slipped from my grasp. Shame tightened my chest. I opened my mouth to answer, but no sound came.Her cries ceased as if a switch had been flipped. Her tiny body went calm in my arms, her wide eyes fixed on something beyond me. Slowly, almost deliberately, she stretched out her hand. Not toward me.
I followed her gaze.At the far end of the café, in the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms, stood a woman.
She wore a soft blue dress—the exact shade Sarah wore the day she told me she was pregnant. Her dark hair fell in the same gentle waves. And though the light was dim, I would have known those eyes anywhere.Sarah.
My breath caught. She was smiling. A smile full of warmth, of reassurance, of love so fierce it seemed to burn through the air between us.
For a heartbeat, the clatter of cups and hiss of the espresso machine faded. The world narrowed to that hallway… and her.
Amy gurgled softly, her tiny fingers still reaching.
I blinked—and the hallway was empty.
The waitress stepped back, startled by the sudden stillness.
“Ma’am? Are you… okay?”
I swallowed hard, my voice finally finding me.
“We’re fine,” I said, cradling Amy closer. “We’re staying right here.”
Something in my tone made her hesitate. Then, with a quiet nod, she turned and walked away.
The couple at the next table shifted uncomfortably, their smug expressions gone. One by one, the other patrons returned to their own conversations, as if some invisible boundary had been drawn around us.
I kissed Amy’s soft forehead.
“Grandma’s here,” I whispered again, but this time my voice was steady.
Because Sarah had been there too. Somehow, some way—just long enough to remind me I wasn’t alone.