The Roadhouse Diner used to be our pit stop, our tradition, our marker that summer had officially begun. Dad discovered this place before Ollie and I existed, dragging Mom here on their first road trip to Lake Eden. The curly fries became our ritual—extra mustard on the side because Dad swore they weren't the same without it, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he dunked each perfectly spiraled fry.

But today, none of us mention the fries.

Two years.

That's how long it's been since we've made this drive, since everything changed. Walking back into this life feels like trying to wear a coat that doesn't fit anymore—the sleeves too short, the shoulders too tight, everything slightly wrong in ways I can't fix.

We don't need menus here. After years of visits, our orders live in muscle memory. But even though I know what I want, nothing about this moment feels familiar.

Everything is quieter. Heavier.

The waiter stands there, his notepad in hand, freckled face open and kind. He can't be much older than sixteen, probably a summer hire who doesn't understand why we're all holding our breath. His eyes flit between Ollie, Mom, and me, searching for someone to take charge.

My chest tightens, but I force my voice steady. "You know what? Let's add the curly fries. A double serving."

"And mustard. On the side," Ollie chimes in, his tone artificially bright, like he's trying to patch a hole in the universe with cheerfulness alone.

"Forgot our manners, did we?" Mom says, her eyebrow lifting as she gives Ollie a look that's so achingly normal it hurts.

"Please, good sir," Ollie adds with an exaggerated flourish, handing back the menus we never opened. For a moment, he sounds exactly like Dad, and I watch Mom's fingers tighten around her glass.

The waiter grins, oblivious to our private pain. "Great choice. Can't go wrong with the curly fries." He jots down our order and disappears, leaving us in the kind of silence that feels too big for this small booth.

Mom sits across from Ollie and me, her lemonade leaving condensation rings on the table. She's trying to hold it together, and for the most part, she's succeeding. But I know better. I've heard her crying late at night, muffled sobs that seep through the walls like ghost stories. I've caught her brushing away tears when some old show she and Dad used to watch comes on TV, her hand moving so quickly you'd miss it if you weren't looking.

I lost my father, but she lost her best friend. Her soulmate. The love of her life. I can't even imagine what that kind of pain feels like. Not yet.

And still, she's Mom of the Year.