My hands were shaking as I pushed open the glass door of the diner.

A bell chimed above my head.

The diner was mostly empty. A few truck drivers sat at the counter, and the smell of grease and coffee filled the air.

And there she was.

She was wiping down a booth with a yellow rag. Her movements were slow, exhausted.

“Kayla,” I whispered.

She stopped. She didn’t turn around immediately.

Her shoulders tensed, and she slowly stood up straight.

When she finally turned to look at me, her face went completely blank.

There was no anger in her eyes. There was only a deep, hollow emptiness.

That hurt worse than any scream.

I walked toward her, my boots heavy on the linoleum floor.

“What are you doing here, David?” she asked.

She didn’t call me Dad.

“Kayla, please,” I said, my voice breaking. I fell to my knees right there in the middle of the diner. I didn’t care who was watching.

“I saw the post,” I sobbed, my tears dropping onto the floor. “I didn’t know. I am so sorry. I am a monster.”

She looked down at me. She didn’t reach out to touch me.

“You didn’t ask,” she said quietly. “You just locked the door.”

We sat in a corner booth after her shift ended.

I listened. For the first time in my life, I just listened.

She told me everything. The party, the boy who spiked her drink, the panic, the cold walk home.

She told me about the freezing nights in Phoenix, the hunger, the fear of living on the streets.

I wanted to hold her, to protect her, but she sat on the other side of the booth, keeping her distance.