Then they were gone. The rumble of motorcycles faded into the distance.
Lily went to clean their table. I heard her gasp.
“Maggie. Maggie, come here. You need to see this.”
I walked over, expecting the worst. Trash everywhere. Something broken. Some crude message left behind.
Instead I found the table spotless. Plates stacked neatly. Napkins folded. Glasses arranged in a row for easy cleanup.
And in the center of the table was an envelope.
My name was written on the front. “Maggie.”
“How did they know my name?” I whispered.
“It’s on the sign outside,” Lily said. “Maggie’s Diner.”
My hands trembled as I opened the envelope. Inside was a stack of cash. I counted it twice. Five hundred dollars. And there was a note written on diner napkin.
The note was written in careful handwriting, like someone who’d taken their time:
“Dear Maggie, We understand why you asked us to pay upfront. We know how we look. We know what people assume. We’ve been getting those looks our whole lives. We’re not angry. We’re not offended. You were protecting your business and your customers. We respect that.
But we wanted you to know who we are.
