The patio stayed utterly quiet; the normal sounds of dining, like forks scraping against plates, had vanished. Beside Thomas, Layla sat perched stiffly in the big chair, her hands still clutching the piece of bread. She stared at it for a long second, as if trying to confirm it was real, before she finally took another, more tentative, bite.
Tears continued to trace paths down her dirt-streaked cheeks as the soft, warm dough practically melted in her mouth. “Slow down,” Thomas said gently, sliding a glass of water closer to her. “There’s plenty more. You don’t need to rush.”
On the other side of the patio, the murmuring started up again. “Is he… is he really just letting her eat with him?” a man whispered, baffled. “This is absurd,” the same woman in pearls muttered, although this time her voice faltered, losing its sharp edge.
An older couple at a nearby table simply lowered their gaze, a look of shame passing over their faces. The waiter returned, this time carrying a plate piled high with roasted chicken, fresh vegetables, and a generous scoop of buttery mashed potatoes. He placed it carefully in front of Layla, then stepped back awkwardly, unable to meet her eyes.
“Eat as much as you want,” Thomas encouraged her. “No one here is going to stop you.” Layla hesitated, looking at the feast. “But… don’t you want it?” Thomas shook his head. “I’ve already had my share. Tonight, it’s your turn.”
While she began to eat, Thomas leaned back in his chair, his mind a swirl of thoughts. He was pulled back to his own childhood, to the cold nights spent sleeping in subway tunnels and the bitter taste of scraps pulled from trash bins. He had made a vow to himself long ago that he would never, ever look back.
But now, watching this small girl, he understood. He hadn’t escaped his past at all; he had just buried it under layers of wealth. Layla wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “My mama… she used to make bread like this,” she said softly. “Before she went to heaven.”
Thomas felt his chest constrict. “What about your dad?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. Layla’s voice cracked. “He left. After mama died. He said I was too much trouble… said someone else would take care of me.”
She stared down at her plate, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But no one did.” A sharp pang, more painful than he could have imagined, shot through Thomas’s heart. He pushed his own untouched plate further aside and reached across the table for her small hand.
“You are not too much trouble,” he said, his voice firm and certain. “You are a child, Layla, and you deserve to be cared for.” Around them, a passing waiter paused mid-step, listening…
