The Journey Home by Michael Baron Page A

word for it. She looked out the window and tried to get her bearings, but then the car was moving again and she lost her place.
    A few minutes later, Warren pulled his car into a parking lot. Antoinette assumed they’d arrived at the diner he’d been talking about. He came around to her side of the car and helped her out, which Antoinette appreciated since her legs had tightened up during the drive. Holding on to her son’s arm, she carefully climbed the five steps up to the diner’s entrance.

    The place seemed pleasant enough. There were mirrors on the wall, which gave Antoinette multiple reflections of herself. She should have done something with her hair, and would have if Warren had given her more warning. A large case to the right of the front door was full of oversized baked goods. The cakes seemed ridiculously high. Did people actually eat those things?
    A hostess welcomed them and sat them in a booth in the large dining room. Everything here seemed to be some shade of brown. It wasn’t particularly unpleasant, and it seemed clean, but a little color would have helped immensely. Don used to laugh at her about her penchant for splashing color all over their house, especially in the dining room and the kitchen. She always reminded him that people ate with their eyes as much as their stomachs, and he always responded by telling her that her cooking was so good that he could have feasted blindfolded. She loved when he cut off any disagreement with a compliment. He always knew what to say.
    Antoinette looked at her menu for a few minutes before deciding to have a couple of scrambled eggs and toast. It had been a long time since she’d felt any kind of appetite. She probably would have been fine with just some coffee, but Warren would have been disappointed. He even questioned her about choosing eggs before he ordered a cup of soup and a chicken potpie. She didn’t want to let him down – he seemed excited about bringing her here – but the eggs were going to be enough of a challenge.

    â€œIs your soup okay?” Antoinette said when the cup arrived a few minutes later.
    â€œYeah, yeah, it’s fine.” Her son held his spoon toward her. “Do you want to try?”
    Antoinette waved a hand. “No, thanks.”
    Warren spooned a noodle and some broth, then sipped. “You’re not missing anything. Not exactly your home cooking, Mom.”
    â€œRestaurant food is different.”
    He reached for the pepper and shook it over his cup several times. “It’s definitely different. But why eat at home when you can pay so much more for something that doesn’t taste nearly as good?”
    Antoinette reached out to pat her son’s arm. He was a good boy. “You always appreciated my cooking.”
    â€œThe whole neighborhood appreciated your cooking. Did you ever notice how many of my friends showed up just before dinnertime?” He took another spoonful of soup and wrinkled his nose. “Mrs. Feinberg cooked like this. That’s why Paul was always hanging out at our house.”
    Antoinette dipped her spoon in the cup and tasted. Warren was exaggerating about how bad the soup was, but only by a little. “Too much salt,” she said. “And much too much pepper, though that might not have been their fault. More aromatics in the broth would have helped.”
    Warren smiled at her as though she’d just revealed a gigantic secret. “I’m telling you, Mom, you should have opened that restaurant we always talked about.”

    â€œ You always talked about it, not me. I never liked the idea of cooking for strangers. I didn’t even like cooking when your father brought home people from work. Cooking is for family.”
    â€œI’m telling you, Mom, all of the customers would have thought you were cooking just for them. You could have scored big.”
    She looked out at him over arched eyebrows. “And who says that I