PART 1

For ten years, my best friend took my autistic son out once a month, always telling me the same thing: they were going to a small diner because Leo loved the fries. I never questioned it. Then, on his eighteenth birthday, Leo insisted that our whole family celebrate at that exact diner. Before the night was over, a waitress pulled me aside and whispered, “You need to know what your son has really been doing here.”

The moment we stepped through the diner doors, three different people called my son’s name.

“Happy birthday, Leo!”

“Eighteen already!”

“Hey, birthday boy!”

Leo barely reacted. He simply raised one hand in greeting and continued toward the back of the restaurant as though people welcoming him by name was completely normal. I stopped so suddenly that my husband, Richard, almost bumped into me. He chuckled and called Leo a popular guy, but when I glanced at Chloe, my best friend, she wasn’t smiling. She was staring at the floor.

Then an older waitress hurried toward us.

“There he is!”

Leo’s expression immediately softened.

“Hi, Marcy.”

She pointed toward the rear of the diner.

“Booth seven?”

“Yes.”

“Jerry still hasn’t fixed that wobbly table.”

“I know.”

I stared at them. Leo hadn’t introduced himself. Chloe hadn’t introduced us either. Yet Marcy knew his name, his birthday, his favorite booth, and apparently enough about his habits to speak to him like an old friend. Then she turned to Richard and me.

“You must be Leo’s parents.”

“I’m Kaitlyn. This is Richard.”

“I know.”

She said it so casually that my stomach tightened. I looked at Chloe, but suddenly she seemed fascinated by the dessert case. That was the first moment I realized there might be an entire part of Leo’s life inside this diner that I knew nothing about.