We were halfway through breakfast when I realized the waitress was staring at my nephew’s toast like it was staring back.
Timon’s four years old—normally a nonstop talker—but that morning, he was oddly quiet, focused entirely on his dinosaur cup and stubbornly ignoring his fruit. We were eating at Loomey’s Diner, the kind of place that never changes—same staff, same booths since the ’80s, nothing out of the ordinary. Until that plate landed.
The waitress set down the toast with a shaky “Here you go,” and didn’t walk away. She just stood there, eyes fixed—not on Timon, but on the toast. I thought maybe it was burnt or had something gross on it, but when I flipped it over, it was just a little overdone. Totally normal.
Still, she didn’t move.
Then, softly, she asked, “Where’d you get that toy car?” and pointed to the small blue race car Timon had left by the ketchup.
I told her it came from my sister’s garage sale box. Timon picked it out himself.
That’s when she covered her mouth, like she might throw up. Her voice barely came out: “That exact car… it was buried with my son. Back in 2017. His name’s scratched underneath the door.”
I turned the car over.
And there it was—scratched into the plastic, shaky and rough: “MATTY 2017.”
I froze. Not in a dramatic, horror-movie way. More like my brain hit pause. Refused to process what I was seeing.
When I looked back at her, she was pale, trembling. Then she just turned and walked away—no words, no scene, just vanished into the back of the diner.
Timon finally noticed something was weird. He looked at me, then at his toast.
“Why’s she sad?” he asked, tapping his plate.
I didn’t know how to explain. “I think… she remembered someone.”
He nodded, like that was all he needed to hear. Then he picked up the little car and ran it along the edge of the table, making race car noises like nothing had happened.
A few minutes later, the manager came over—Tommy. Big guy, flour-covered apron, gentle voice. He asked if everything was okay. I told him what happened.
His face barely changed, but I saw him swallow hard before he said, “I didn’t know Amanda was on the schedule today.”
“Amanda?”
“Yeah. She only fills in once in a while now. She… she lost her son. Matty. Car crash. Right after his fifth birthday.”
I glanced at Timon, still playing with the toy, now making it hop over sugar packets.
“That toy was buried with him?” I asked.
Tommy nodded. “He wouldn’t go anywhere without it. Even brought it to the ER that night… Amanda said she tucked it in beside him.”