I never planned to get close to anyone—especially not a seven-year-old with sticky fingers and a million questions.
My kitchen was my sanctuary. No interruptions, no exceptions. I ran it with strict discipline—timers ticking, flames dancing, knives flashing. It was a well-oiled machine, and I liked it that way. People assumed I was just another stone-faced chef obsessed with sauces and searing. Fine by me. The less they knew, the safer I was.
So when Maribel, one of our waitresses, asked if her kid could stay in the back after school, I almost laughed in her face. “This is a kitchen, not a babysitting gig,” I said, brushing sweat off my forehead as I plated the special.
But then she looked at me—exhausted, hopeful—and said, “Just till my shift ends. He’s a good kid. He won’t be any trouble.”
I don’t know what made me agree. Maybe it was the way she said “good kid,” or maybe I just didn’t have the energy to argue. Either way, the next afternoon he showed up—hair a mess, smile off-center, and cookie crumbs stuck to his shirt.
“Hi! I’m Nico! Are you the soup boss?”
I didn’t answer. Just gave him a bowl of mushrooms and told him to wash them. Twice.
That should’ve been the end of it. But he came back. And then he kept coming back. Perched on the prep counter, swinging his legs, watching me work and firing off questions only a kid could come up with.
“Why do onions make your eyes cry?”
“Do chefs have secret weapons like superheroes have swords?”
I mostly stayed quiet. Gave him simple tasks—peeling garlic, stacking plates. He talked. I cooked. And gradually, the silence between us became something easier. He made the kitchen feel less heavy, like maybe not everything had to hurt.
Nobody here knew the real me. Not my coworkers, not the vendors, not even Maribel. They didn’t know I slept in a tiny room above the bakery next door. No car. No social media. No family pictures. Just a duffel bag in my locker, always ready—just in case.
That duffel had a secret, too. An envelope hidden beneath the lining. Inside: a folded birth certificate, an old ID with my face but a different name, and five letters I wrote but never sent. Letters I kept promising myself I’d destroy, though I never did.
Then came that Thursday.
The place was nearly empty—just me and the quiet hum of the cooler. I was wiping down the counters when I noticed my locker.
The door was cracked open.
My pulse jumped.
I opened it all the way. The lining had been pulled back.
The envelope was gone…