‘Excuse me,’ I said, getting in his way. ‘May I speak to you? I’m the daughter of the woman you’ve been tormenting for weeks now. I’ve watched the way you’ve been treating her. And frankly, it’s disgusting.’
He scoffed, looking at me sneeringly. ‘And what are you going to do about it?’
‘For starters, I’m going to explain to you why you’re doing this,’ I said, keeping my voice even. ‘You’re not mad at my mum. You’re mad at yourself. You’re an angry, bitter person who can’t stand to see my mum’s joy and the way her kindness makes everyone around her smile. It reminds you of everything you’ve lost.’
His face flushed. ‘You know nothing about me!’
‘I know enough. You lost your wife last year, didn’t you?’
His face went pale, and I realised I’d hit the mark.
‘She was the only one who put up with you, wasn’t she? And now you’re taking your frustration out on a woman who’s just trying to make a living.’
I took a step closer, close enough to notice the slight tremor in his hands. ‘But I have news for you. You’re not going to get away with this anymore. It’s not fair, and I think deep down you realise that.’
‘After all,’ I continued, ’the man standing in front of me now can’t be the very man your wife married, because no one would put up with you for years if you treated a stranger like that.
His eyes lit up. Without a word, he sprang out, and the bell above the door jingled in time with his footsteps. The other visitors pretended to be absorbed in their breakfasts, but I felt their relief at his absence.
He did not appear the next morning or the following ones.
I began to hope that he had found himself another café. But on the third day, as I was sipping my morning coffee, he entered the café and went straight to my mum.
There was silence in the cafe. Then he pulled a bouquet of yellow daisies from behind his back and held it out to Mum.
‘These are for you,’ he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
Mum stared at the flowers, hesitant to take them. Her apron was flecked with flour from the morning’s baking, and a strand of silver hair had dislodged from under a barrette.
‘Your daughter was right,’ he continued, his voice trembling. ‘I lost my wife… three months ago. She was the only one who understood me. And now I don’t know how to live without her.’
He swallowed hard. ‘We didn’t have kids, and I’m… so lonely. I’m angry at the whole world. When I saw you, your kindness and energy… it reminded me of her. She was always so sunny…’
His hands trembled around the flower stems. ‘I’m sorry for treating you like that. My wife would be ashamed of me. I’m ashamed of myself.’
The whole café seemed to hold its breath.
Mum looked at him for a long moment, then put her hand on his shoulder. ‘I understand,’ she said softly. ‘Life isn’t always easy, and sometimes we forget to be kind when we’re hurt. But I forgive you.’
These days, he still came to Frank’s house every morning at 8:15. But now, instead of complaining, he and his mother discuss sixties music, swap stories about their favourite films, and sometimes just sit in comfortable silence.
Yesterday I even heard him laughing – a rusty sound, like a door opening after a long winter.
And my mum? She smiles again, a real smile that reaches her eyes. She told me last week that sometimes the people who need kindness the most are the ones who deserve it the least.
That’s my mum, who always finds light in the darkness.