I Thought I'd Never Be a Mother

The morning rush was winding down when I first saw him.

I was wiping down the counter for the third time—old habit from my wedding planning days, when every surface had to be perfect—when something outside caught my eye. A boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, standing by the window. He'd been there for at least ten minutes, not moving, just staring at the menu board.

I set down my cloth and really looked at him.

Dark hair that needed cutting. A winter coat that was too big for his thin frame, like it belonged to someone else. But it was the way he stood that got to me—careful, like he wasn't sure he belonged here. Like he was waiting for permission to exist.

I knew that feeling.

The last customer, Mrs. Henderson, finished her coffee and left with a cheerful "See you tomorrow, Lettie!" The bell above the door chimed, and suddenly the diner felt too quiet. Through the glass, I watched the boy count something in his palm. Coins, from the look of it.

My chest tightened a little.

He kept glancing between his hand and the price list taped to the window. Maple Buttermilk Pancakes - $4.25. His shoulders sagged.

I'd seen that look before. On my own face, actually, the day I realized I'd never be able to give Philippe the family he wanted. When you want something so badly but know you can't afford it—whether it's food or a future.

I walked to the door and opened it. The March air was cold but carried that promise of spring that Quebec gets right before everything melts.

"Vous voulez entrer?" I called out. Want to come in?

He turned, startled. His eyes were this warm brown color, like maple syrup before it's ready. "Um... I don't... je ne parle pas français très bien."

"That's okay, sweetheart. Do you want to come inside? It's warmer."

He hesitated, then shuffled closer. Up close, I could see he was younger than I'd thought. Definitely twelve, maybe younger. His cheeks were red from the cold.

"I was wondering," he said carefully, his English accented but clear, "the maple pancakes... could I maybe get them for three fifty?"

My heart did this stupid flutter thing. The same thing that used to happen when a bride's father would tear up during the father-daughter dance. Before I learned that happy endings weren't guaranteed.

"How many pancakes are we talking about?" I asked, stepping back to let him in.

"Just... just one order. For me." He pulled his hand from his pocket, revealing three quarters, two loonies, and some smaller change. "I counted. Three dollars and fifty cents exactly."

I looked at this kid—this polite, careful kid who'd probably been standing outside working up the courage to ask for a discount—and something shifted in my chest.

"Tips are included, sweetheart," I said, smiling. "Come on, let's get you fed."

His whole face lit up. Actually lit up, like someone had flipped a switch.

I led him to the corner booth, the one with the best view of the kitchen. "What's your name?"

"Rémi. Rémi Bouchard."

"I'm Lettie. And Rémi, you just ordered the best pancakes in Saint-Gabriel-de-Valcartier."

I meant it, too. My great-grandmother's recipe, passed down through four generations of women who knew that sometimes food was love made visible.

Back in the kitchen, I started the batter from scratch. Real buttermilk, a hint of vanilla, just enough flour to make them fluffy but not heavy. The griddle was already the perfect temperature—I'd been doing this long enough to know by sound.

Through the pass-through window, I watched Rémi. He sat very still, hands folded in his lap, looking around like he was trying to memorize everything. The red vinyl booths, the vintage Coca-Cola signs, the way the morning light streamed through the windows.

The batter sizzled as it hit the griddle. I shaped the first pancake into a rabbit—silly, maybe, but I used to do animal shapes for the kids at wedding brunches. The couples always thought it was charming.

"What kind of animal do you like?" I called out.

"Animals?" His voice cracked with surprise.

"For your pancakes. I can make shapes."

He was quiet for a moment. "Maybe... maybe a fox? My grand-mère used to tell me stories about foxes."

A fox it was. I made three small ones, perfectly golden, with little pointed ears and bushy tails. The maple syrup—Henri's best Grade A—went into a small pitcher alongside a pat of real butter and two strips of bacon I threw in because the kid looked like he needed it.

When I set the plate in front of him, Rémi just stared.

"Problem?" I asked.

"Non, c'est... they're beautiful." His voice was soft, almost reverent. "Thank you, Madame Lettie."

Then he ate.

And oh, did this kid eat. Like he hadn't seen food in days, quick efficient bites, barely stopping to breathe. But even hungry as he obviously was, he ate neatly, carefully, like someone had taught him good manners.

It broke my heart a little.

I busied myself cleaning the griddle, but I kept watching. The way he savored each bite, the way he made sure to get syrup on every piece, the way he tried to make it last even though he was clearly starving.

When he finished, he sat back with this little satisfied sigh that reminded me why I'd wanted to feed people in the first place. Before the wedding business. Before Philippe. Before everything went sideways.

"That was the best breakfast I ever had," he said, and I believed him.

Without being asked, he started stacking his dishes. Neat little pile, napkin folded on top, just like a well-trained restaurant worker.

"You don't have to do that, honey."

"Maman always said to clean up after myself." He paused, a shadow crossing his face. "Before she... anyway."

He pulled out his carefully counted coins and placed them on the table. Three fifty exactly.

"Thank you, Madame Lettie. Maybe... maybe I can come back sometime?"

"Anytime," I said, and meant it. "The diner's open twenty-four hours."

He smiled—really smiled this time—and headed for the door. At the last second, he turned back.

"The fox pancakes were perfect."

I watched him walk away through the window, this small figure in an oversized coat, and felt something I hadn't felt in five years. Not quite hope—I wasn't ready for that yet—but something warm and unexpected.

Like maybe I wasn't as empty as I thought.

The next morning, I was refilling the coffee machine when I saw him again. Same spot by the window, same careful stance. But this time, he had a small backpack slung over his shoulder.

My heart did that flutter thing again.

This time, I didn't wait for him to count his coins.