Freya got pregnant young, and her parents threw her out of the house. Fifteen years later, they showed up to see their daughter and grandson. What they saw left them staggered…

The room spun with their voices, but Freya’s mind was already racing elsewhere. Days later, she had a plan. She pooled those savings, every penny from 15 years of tips, and ordered a custom jacket from a tailor in town.

It was gorgeous. Deep navy wool, tailored sharp like Lance’s suits, but with a corduroy collar, a nod to that first chaotic day. She wrapped it in a sleek black box, tied with a silver ribbon, and waited for the right moment.

It came one quiet evening, just the two of them at Rosie’s after closing. The diner was dark, save for a single light over their booth. Freya slid the box across the table, her hands shaky.

Open it. Lance raised an eyebrow, peeling back the ribbon. When he lifted the jacket, his grin faltered into something softer.

Freya, this is… For you, she cut in, her voice thick. For showing up. For Sigrid.

For everything. I was so scared to let anyone in. But you.

You’re real. Thank you. He ran a hand over the collar, then looked at her, eyes bright.

So that’s a yes? She laughed, a tear slipping free. Yeah, Lance, it’s a yes. He pulled her across the booth into a hug, the jacket squashed between them, and for once Freya didn’t fight the warmth flooding her chest.

It wasn’t a dream. It was hers. Sigrid sailed through his years at Johns Hopkins like he was born for it.

Science wasn’t just schoolwork. It was his spark, the thread he’d tugged since he was a kid dismantling flashlights. He aced exams with a quiet ease, his curiosity lighting up lecture halls and labs alike.

When he graduated med school, top of his class, scrubs swapped for a cap and gown. A private clinic in Baltimore snapped him up before the ink dried on his diploma. At 22, he was a surgeon, steady hands wielding scalpels in operating rooms that buzzed with life and death stakes.

It was late November that year, Thanksgiving week, when Freya called him home to Springfield. She’d cooked up a storm, turkey with sage stuffing, mashed potatoes drowning in gravy, cranberry sauce tart and bright, all laid out on Eleanor’s rickety dining table. Sigrid pulled into the driveway, the old brick house glowing warm against the grey dusk, and stepped into a scene that felt like a hug.

Freya, now 42, bustled in a plaid apron, her hair streaked with silver, but her grin as fierce as ever. Lance, greying fully now, carved the bird with a practised hand, his real estate firm thriving. He’d just landed a deal for a downtown office block.

Freya had hung up her waitress apron years back. She and Lance bought Rosies when the old owner, Rosie herself, retired at 75, too weary to sling hash. Freya ran it now, manager in title, but queen in spirit, the diner theirs to keep alive.

Eleanor, 90 and counting, sat at the table’s head, her quilted robe swapped for a sweater, her hands gnarled but her eyes sharp. She regaled them with stories, half true, half embellished, about Freya’s teenage stubbornness, while Sigrid laughed, picking at a roll. The room hummed with their voices, plates clinking, a fire crackling in the hearth.

Business is good, Lance said, passing the gravy, but this, right here, this is better. Damn right, Freya agreed, nudging Sigrid. Dr. Jensen, slumming it with our small towners.

How’s the clinic? Busy, Sigrid said, grinning. Cut open a gallbladder yesterday. Guy’s fine now, thanked me with a fruitcake.

Fruitcake, Eleanor cackled. Hope it’s better than mine. Then his phone buzzed mid-bite, screen flashing clinic ER.

He sighed, answering quick. Yeah? Okay, I’m on my way, he stood, apologetic. Emergency surgery, sorry, gotta run.

Save me some pie. Always, Freya said, squeezing his arm as he grabbed his coat. Be safe.

The operation was a beast, six hours, a woman in her late 60s with a ruptured appendix. Sigrid pulled it off, steady as ever, and she came through, groggy but alive. He was scrubbing out, still in his green scrubs when her husband approached.

A wiry man, balding, with a tweed coat and a handshake that lingered too long. Doctor Jensen, thank you, he said, voice thick. You saved her…