The booth erupted. “This is disgusting! Fire this idiot!” the woman shrieked, her fake nails gripping the glass.
Before I could dodge, she hurled the entire iced latte – straw and all – right at my face. Sticky cold mess everywhere, soaking my shirt, stinging my eyes.

My heart pounded, but I didn’t scream. I just grabbed a rag, wiped my face, and said flat, “Ma’am, that’s assault. On camera.”
She barked a laugh. “Call the cops then, peasant. I own half this town.”
The diner froze. Forks down. Eyes on us.

Kitchen door bangs open. Out steps my dad, sleeves rolled up, apron stained from 25 years owning the place.
He marches straight to her table. Doesn’t even glance at me.
“Deborah,” he growls, voice like gravel. “Deborah Kline?”
Her smirk vanishes. Blood drains from her face. “W-who are you?”

Dad pulls a faded photo from his pocket, slaps it down. It’s yellowed, creased – a baby picture.
“You left her on my doorstep. Midnight, 22 years ago. Note said ‘Keep her safe.’ That waitress you just drenched? She’s your daughter. And now you’re gonna pay for…”
My dad’s voice trailed off, thick with an emotion I’d never heard from him before. It was a lifetime of anger and hurt packed into a few words.
The entire diner was so quiet you could hear the hum of the old neon sign outside. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting, trying to connect the dots.
Deborah Kline. The woman from the local society pages, always at some charity gala, smiling a smile that never reached her eyes. This woman, who just called me a peasant, was my mother?