In a diner located in a tiny town, Emma, who works as a waitress, is well-known to the regulars. However, there is one Sunday guest that sticks out from the rest: a reserved gentleman who always leaves her a gratuity of $100. When she posts a picture of him on the internet as a way to show her appreciation, she has no idea that the revelation that follows will completely upend her entire existence.
For a little more than two years now, I have been employed at a quaint diner that is located just off the highway. You are familiar with the kind of establishment that has red booths, the aroma of bacon and syrup in the air, and constantly playing the same classic rock playlist. It is precisely six o’clock in the morning when we open, and our regular customers are just as much a part of the establishment as the broken coffee mugs and syrup bottles.
There is the elderly couple who never misses a Tuesday and always orders blueberry pancakes together so that they can share them. Even though they are still wearing their cleats and shin pads, a group of young soccer players enters the room after their games on Sunday afternoons. Their laughing fills the spaces. A young mother with her kid who has curly hair always orders chicken and waffles on Wednesdays, and then there is Trevor, the creative individual who drinks black coffee and orders a spinach omelet every Thursday while typing away on his laptop. Both of these individuals are a part of the same establishment.
Nevertheless, there was one client who stuck out to me more than the others.
Every single Sunday morning, he would show up. Consistently the first person to enter the room.
He appeared to be an elderly gentleman, most likely in his late sixties, and he wore the same worn plaid shirt all the time. His eyes were so piercing that it seemed as if they could see through you rather than at you. His face was wrinkled with the signs of aging, and his eyes were sharp. He did not speak very much. In point of fact, I strongly believe that he never spoke more than a few words during any of his visits.
Simply his order, which consisted of a black coffee, a slice of apple pie in the middle of the morning, and perhaps a club sandwich around noon, together with a courteous and quiet “Thank you.” As he was leaving, he said, “Have a wonderful day.”
Then, without fail, he would leave a tip of one hundred dollars for me.
Each and every last Sunday.
Those suggestions did make an impact, and I won’t pretend otherwise. It was true. One hundred dollars might not seem like a significant amount of money to some people, but when you’re a waitress working shifts that are uncertain, it has a significant impact. In addition to assisting me in covering expenses such as rent, petrol, and groceries, it also assisted me in getting through challenging weeks.
One afternoon, when my buddy Ava and I were sitting down to eat our complimentary lunch after the shift, I told her, “I still don’t get why he does it.”
Although she was pouring ketchup over her fries, she remarked, “Perhaps he is lonely.” You may also remind him of someone else, such as a granddaughter or a niece, for example.
While I was taking a sip of my strawberry milkshake, I chuckled and said, “Don’t make it weird.” Nevertheless, the idea remained in my mind.
I mean, he didn’t appear to be wealthy. Neither did he drive a flashy car nor did he flaunt anything really valuable. His appearance was that of any other elderly man who was attempting to take pleasure in some peace and routine. His unspoken benevolence was the only thing that separates them.
After it had been happening every week like clockwork for a few months, I began to ponder more and more about the reason for it every time.
Was he simply exceptional in his generosity? Was it possible that he was someone who had no family left and was utilizing the diner as a place to feel human once more?
I never inquired about it. It didn’t feel right, and to tell you the truth, there was a part of me that enjoyed the air of mystery to it.
The Sunday that brought about the change in everything came next.
The day before, he appeared different, more exhausted. His shoulders appeared to be heavier, and his face appeared to be paler. I tried to engage in a little bit more discussion than usual, but he was not interested in it. I asked him a few times if he required anything else, but he responded negatively.
He whispered, “No, thank you, Emma,” as he read my nametag to ensure that he would correctly pronounce my name.
Following his customary slice of pie, he presented me with the bill while smiling in his normal gentle manner. Another hundred dollars was neatly folded within.
Something compelled me to take out my phone and take a picture of him through the front window as he was leaving the building.
During that night, as I was cuddled up on my bed, I checked out the photograph once more and experienced a peculiar pull in my chest. Without giving it any thought, I uploaded it to my unassuming Instagram account and captioned it with the following:
“For the past few months, this gentleman has been coming to the diner on Sundays. He has never been loud and has always been nice. Additionally, he leaves a tip of one hundred dollars each week. No one ever asks him why. Simply wanted to express my gratitude to you, whoever you may be.
It appeared to be completely harmless. This is just a beautiful tale that you can tell your friends.
The phone rang ten minutes after I had hung up. My mother’s name appeared on the screen just as I was about to let it go to voicemail because I was half asleep.
I was hesitant. For as long as I can remember, my relationship with my mother has been… complex. However, she had a tendency to be pushy and secretive, despite the fact that she truly loved me. In spite of this, I felt a compelling want to push up the pace.
“Emma,” she murmured in a breathless manner. How come you choose to upload that picture?
I blinked my eyes. “What is it? “Why?”
“The individual depicted in the photograph.” Her voice was trembling. We are talking about your father, Emma.
After sitting up straight in bed, I felt a constriction in my chest.
“What is it?”
She stated once more, “That is your father.” I am David.
I became numb. Daddy of mine? No. That is not possible.
My father had abandoned us when I was just a few months old, and I was devastated. It was impossible for me to recall him; in fact, I had never even seen a picture of him. After my father left, my mother removed any traces of him from our home. My perception of him was that he was nothing more than a wound that had healed over a lengthy period of time.
It is not. I repeated it with a trembling voice, “That can’t possibly be true.”
“Yes,” Mom whispered in a low voice. It has been a couple months since he returned. I received a message from him. Dear Emma, he is… he is ill. Cancer is the cause. Move forward. He inquired as to whether or not he could meet with you. My response was “no.” It was important to me that he not hurt you again. However, I did let him know where you were employed.
It was dry in my mouth. “So you’ve been having interactions with him?”
“Only for a short time,” she said in a hurry. I didn’t mention it to you since I was unsure of how to do so. I was under the impression that he would leave. I was surprised to see that he actually showed up.
However, he had.
Every Sunday, he would be present at that location. Right in front of me. I am being tipped. Attending to me. It is my own father.
Not a single word was spoken by me. The feelings that were going through my head were a jumbled mess of uncertainty, fury, and disbelief. I hung up and gazed at my phone.
The individual who had abandoned me.
The man whom I had harbored resentment at throughout my life.
He had been right there by my side, quietly observing me and giving me a tip as if it would somehow compensate for the years that he had spent away from me.
I shed tears.
It was not a graceful and quiet weep. I was the little girl who had never had a father to teach her how to ride a bike or to lead her down the aisle at her graduation. It was the kind of cry that came from the deepest part of me.
The countless Sunday mornings that… I had no idea about that.
The idea of seeing him again was something that kept me up at night during the following week. I was uncertain as to whether or not he would show up. In the event that he did, I was at a loss for words.
Sunday arrived, and he was there as well.
In the same manner as he always does, he entered the establishment at precisely 6:01 a.m. and proceeded to his typical booth. In the middle, I met him.
I whispered, “Don’t sit,” and stood up.
The man came to a halt and glanced at me. It was impossible to read his expression. Perhaps exhausted. Positivist. I am ashamed.
Why did you choose not to tell me? I inquired about it.
Before he finally spoke, he paused. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in seeing me,” she said. It is not something I deserve. I have just… I desired to be in close proximity. All the same, even from afar.”
“You abandoned me.”
“I am aware.”
“I have never seen you in my entire life.”
Slowly, he gave a nod. “I regret each and every second of it,” she said.
There I stood, my heart thumping rapidly. I wanted to yell at him about every single thing, including every single school play, every single tear, and every single birthday that he would not celebrate. Regarding the fact that I used to deceive my friends by claiming that he lived a great distance away, simply so I wouldn’t have to admit that he didn’t care anymore.
Rather than that, I just stated, “One hundred dollars is not going to fix that.”
I am aware of that, he murmured. It wasn’t about making any kind of corrections. Something was just something I wanted you to have. What so ever?”
My hands were shaking.
It’s Emma! While brandishing a tray, Ava yelled out from behind the counter. “The table is ready for you.”
As I turned away from him, tears began to well up in my eyes.
After that, he left. I was surprised that he did it.
After I had finished clearing the table by the window that afternoon, I saw that there was no $100 tip waiting for me.
A single word written on the inside of a folded napkin would be sufficient:
I am sorry.
