When my only son died, I thought I'd buried every chance at family. Five years later, a new boy entered my classroom with a familiar birthmark and a smile that shattered everything I thought I'd healed. I wasn't ready for what came next, or the hope it brought with it.

Mark nodded, polite, already passing me the menu.

Theo leaned over, whispering like he had a secret. "Did you know they put chocolate chips in the pancakes if you ask?"

"Is that so?" I smiled, warming to him. "You seem like an expert."

He giggled, swinging his legs. "Mom says I could live off pancakes and coloring books."

Ivy rolled her eyes. "And apparently, chocolate milk. He'll bounce off the walls all afternoon."

"Is that so?"

"My son loved chocolate milk," I said. "Even when he was 18 years old, Theo, he used to have a glass after dinner every night."

Mark smiled, then looked at me. "We come here every Saturday. It's a tradition."

I glanced at the other families, couples lost in their own mornings. I finally felt like I belonged somewhere again.

Theo pulled a crayon from his pocket and started doodling on a napkin.

"Can you draw, Ms. Rose?"

"I can. But I'm not very good at it."

"My son loved chocolate milk."

He giggled. We bent our heads together, sketching a lopsided dog and a big yellow sun. Ivy watched us, her guard dropping, bit by bit. After a moment, she slid her pot of tea across the table.

"You take sugar, right, Rose?" she asked.

I nodded, stirring in two packets, my hands a little steadier.

Theo looked up, his eyes shining. "Are you coming next Saturday, too?"

I caught Ivy's eye. She gave a small, brave smile. "If you'd like."

"Are you coming next Saturday, too?"