The second had cream cheese but no pistachio paste.
The third finally carried everything Gloria still needed.
By the time we loaded the last bags into the trunk, it was nearly eleven at night.
The total came to $587.34.
I knew exactly where that money had come from.
For months, Gloria had quietly been saving her restaurant tips to repair the aging oven at Gloria’s Corner.
The repair would have to wait.
We reached home shortly before midnight.
Without saying a word about sleep, Gloria tied on her apron.
Within minutes the kitchen transformed into a professional workspace.
Bowls.
Mixing stations.
Timers.
Schedules taped beside the stove.
I made coffee and stayed beside her as long as I could.
My aching back limited how much I could help, but I peeled vegetables, washed dishes, measured ingredients, and cleaned every surface she finished using.
Outside, Chicago settled into the night.
Inside, only the rhythm of knives, ovens, and boiling pots filled the kitchen.
Around twelve-forty, Gloria smiled faintly.
“I keep thinking about Kevin when he was eleven.”
“What about him?”
“He used to come straight from school to the restaurant and help wipe tables.”
“He just wanted to be close to you.”
“He used to.”
Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
I remembered another memory.
Kevin once wrote a school essay about his hero.
His final sentence had read:
“My mom feeds everybody and never asks for anything back. That is what a hero does.”
Gloria had kept that paper for years inside the kitchen drawer.
She never imagined that same little boy would someday watch his phone while she worked through the night for his daughter.
At 1:17 a.m., Tiffany sent another message.
I read it aloud.
“I forgot Linda and Richard don’t eat red meat, and Jesse is vegan. Can you add a few more options? Nothing fancy. Thanks, Mom!”
Five more dishes.
At one in the morning.
I wanted to call her immediately.
Gloria stopped me.
“Don’t.”
“She keeps adding things.”
“I know.”
“She wrote ‘nothing fancy.’”
“I saw.”
“You’ve been working all day.”
“So have you.”
