The alarm’s screech woke me, as usual, to an empty house. No laughter, no smell of bacon—just silence since my wife, Ruth, left this world five years back. Her photo by my bed held memories of brighter days. I’d check my phone—no texts from my kids, Tom or Anna. They’d been close once—Tom’s nightly calls, Anna’s Christmas visits—but jobs and moves stretched the gap. Tom’s tech life consumed him, Anna’s new city took her far, and my screen stayed blank. I didn’t blame them, but it cut deep. I’d choke down oatmeal alone, then head to my cashier shift at the supermarket, where I was just background noise—scanning cans while folks ignored me.
One slow afternoon, a young man in a ball cap dropped his groceries on my belt. “Long day?” he asked, voice light. I froze—nobody chatted. “Same old,” I said, ringing up his chips. “Gotta be more fun than this,” he teased, eyes meeting mine. “$12.80,” I mumbled. “I’m Kyle,” he said, paying. “Frank,” I answered, wary. “Catch ya, Frank,” he winked, gone. I shrugged it off, but Kyle kept coming—always my line, buying a single soda or loaf, tossing me questions like we were pals. One night, I found him by my car after work. “You okay?” I asked, leaning on the hood. “Missing my mom,” he said softly. “Died last fall.” I swallowed, “My kids—Tom, Anna—they’re ghosts now.” We bonded over loss, grabbing late-night fries soon after.
Kyle’s spark lit up my gray routine, but his patched bag and tired face told a story. “What’s your life, Kyle?” I pressed over burgers. He looked away, “No work, no place. Quit to care for Mom—everything fell apart.” I sat, stunned—his cheer hid so much. That night, I tossed in bed, wanting to help. Next diner meet, I blurted, “Crash at my place—free room.” He gaped, “Why me?” “I’m alone—you’re not,” I said. He nodded, grinning, “You’re stuck with me.” Kyle’s mess—spilled juice, loud music—brought my house alive. Then Tom called, “Coffee soon, Dad?” I hesitated, “What’s this about?” “I regret the distance,” he said. Kyle’s pain pushed me—I agreed. At the shop, Tom looked older, softer. “I hid in my job after Mom,” he said. “Thought you didn’t want me.” I replied, “Family’s who shows, Tom.” He swore he’d try.
Kyle soon scored a delivery job with a flat. “It’s mine!” he cheered. I smiled, but felt the void coming. Before he moved, he said, “You changed everything, Frank.” I laughed, “Right back at ya.” He pinged me: “Tacos at my spot?” His place was a shoebox, his food awful, but we roared with joy, and I was home. Tom might reach out, or fade—I wasn’t chasing. Kyle showed me life’s about who’s there, and I was no longer drifting.
