He came home one Saturday evening smelling like fryer oil, dish soap, and something lemony.
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I looked up from the laundry basket.
“Where have you been, buddy?”
He froze.
That should have been my first clue.
“Working.”
I blinked.
“Working where?”
“Mr. Alvarez lets me help at the diner on Saturdays.”
I set the towel down.
“You got a job without telling me?”
Evan looked at the floor.
“I wanted to earn the bike myself, Mom.”
The diner belonged to a family we knew from the neighborhood.
Mr. Alvarez had watched Evan grow up.
Once I spoke to him and confirmed that Evan was only bussing tables, doing light cleaning, and helping in the dishroom for a few hours each Saturday, I agreed to let him continue.
For the first couple of months, everything seemed normal.
He came home tired.
Sometimes greasy.
