😵😲Every morning I fed a lonely boy — secretly, so that the management wouldn’t find out. But one day he didn’t come: instead of the boy, black cars stopped in front of the café, and the letter the soldiers handed me knocked the ground from under my feet.
Every morning I set out the cups, wiped the tables, and pretended everything was fine. The world around seemed stuck on repeat — the same faces, the smell of coffee, the bell ringing above the door.
One day I noticed the boy. Small, about ten years old, with a backpack that looked heavier than him. He always came exactly at 7:15, sat in the farthest corner, and ordered only a glass of water.
On the fifteenth day I placed a plate of pancakes in front of him.
— Made too many by mistake, — I said, pretending it was just an accident.
He looked at me for a long time, then quietly said:
— Thank you.
Since then, I brought him breakfast every day. He never told who he was or why he was alone, without parents. The boy simply ate and always said thank you.
And then one day he didn’t come. I kept waiting, looking at the door, until I heard the sound of engines outside. Four black SUVs stopped at the entrance. Men in uniform came in and silently handed me a letter.
😯😨When I read the first words, the plate fell from my hands. A dead silence filled the café.
Continuation in the first comment… 👇👇
I still remember that day. 9:17 a.m. The air outside seemed to grow thicker — four black SUVs stopped at the entrance. Men in uniform entered the room, step by step, as if carrying not just papers but someone’s fate.
One of them approached me, took off his cap, and said he was looking for the woman who fed the boy every morning. My mouth went dry. “That’s me,” I replied.
He took out a folded letter. His voice trembled slightly.
The boy’s name was Adam. His father was a soldier. He died in service.
Before his death, he wrote: “Thank the woman from the café who fed my son. She gave him what the world had taken away — the feeling that someone still remembered him.”
When I finished reading the letter, my hands trembled helplessly. Everything around froze — even the spoons stopped clinking. The soldiers saluted. And I just stood there, unable to utter a word.
I couldn’t recover from that day for a long time. I reread the letter over and over, as if afraid the words would disappear if I let go of it. Sometimes it seemed like he would still come — with the same backpack, the same shy smile.
A few weeks later I received another letter. From the same officer. Inside — a short note and a photograph: the boy, the same one, sitting on the grass next to a man in uniform.
It turned out he had been adopted by his father’s friend — a soldier whose life his father had once saved.
“Now he has a home. And he often remembers the woman who fed him every morning,” — it said at the end.
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