By six-fifteen the first seating had already begun, servers gliding between tables with polished efficiency while guests leaned forward eagerly over menus describing ingredients most of them had never tasted before.
At six-forty, the host escorted four people through the front door.
I recognized them immediately, though time had softened and rearranged their features.
My mother walked first, her posture still sharp with the same determined pride she had always carried when she believed someone might be watching.
My father followed with heavier steps, his shoulders broader but somehow slouched, as though life had slowly bent his confidence inward.
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