I was born with a superpower. I am invisible, but only to people I’m related to. I was number five out of six children. I have three brothers and two sisters. My younger sister was born 10 months after I was, so I didn’t even get a stint as ‘the baby.’ My three brothers are all older, so I lived on hand-me-downs. My birthday is also Christmas Day, so I was 22 years old before I heard someone utter ‘happy birthday’ to me.

I’m not going to pretend I was neglected or abused. I always had enough food and three brothers meant I always had clothes. I was just forgotten. The van seated seven, so when they went to the fair or for ice cream, I was inevitably the one left behind. I was used to it and every once in a while, they’d bring me back something.

If one of my parents needed my attention, I’d hear three other names before eventually, “Hunter” passed on of their lips. It was the same for most things. I never expected to see a familiar face when I had a match. I learned quickly to make friends with the other kids on the team to ensure a ride home since practice meant staying after the buses had gone.

It worked both ways. They didn’t notice the 4.0 or the academic decathlon trophy, but they also didn’t notice if I was five hours past curfew. They didn’t notice the year I went punk or the year I started working at Miller’s market.

My siblings all worked at the diner. My mother had bought it after a 2-million-dollar lottery win, turning her from waitress to owner. She’d bought that and the house before the rest was put into five college funds, just after I was born ... want to guess who got number five? Yep, little Ashley, my younger sister.

I’d figured out that was how it was going to go years before. I’d left the day after my matriculation. They hadn’t come of course. I’m sure they had five other places to be that night. I packed my stuff (well a backpack and a duffel anyway) and boarded a greyhound for the capital. I’d secured a scholarship, and I was used to working, so I made it through undergrad just fine.

My master’s was a bit harder. It took me an extra two years as I had to work around a full-time job and a part-time one, but eventually I got my degree and all the certifications necessary to become a Physician’s assistant. I’d been working for a couple of years when I saw a job opening at a clinic about twenty miles from my hometown. I applied and got it and that had brought me to the day in question.

I was driving past my hometown. I hadn’t been back since I left. I didn’t make it back to my father’s funeral because they forgot to tell me he died till I spoke to Ashley two months after the fact. My eldest brother Nick informed me of my mother’s remarriage when he called to borrow money (oddly that was the only time any of my family could see me ... when they wanted money.) The divorce that followed was back to Ashley again when she was looking for a place to stay because Mom had signed the house over to her new husband and a month later caught him cheating ... with Ashley. Mom had apparently gotten an apartment close to the diner, but refused to take Ashley in.

On a whim, I decided to drive through town instead of around it. As if directed by god, I found myself parking in front of the diner. It had been old when Mom had bought it. From back when cable car design was all the rage, but it had been well maintained when I last saw it. It was a bit worse for that day. The paint on the exterior was peeling. One of the bay windows had a hole in it and a piece of plywood blocking it. The giant turning sign that said, “Haven Hills Diner” didn’t seem to turn anymore.

I stared at it for a good twenty minutes before I got out and headed for the door. They added a short wooden ramp in place of the creaking old steps. I entered and the inside was better, though vacant. I saw a cook in the back and mom working the till and the room. An elderly couple sat in the corner sipping coffee and my gym teacher was trying out a plate of pork n’ beans.

I went towards the counter and sat on the stool. I don’t know why, but I expected her to hug me and ask about the years betwixt and between our meetings, that didn’t happen of course. Instead, my mother walked up to me, smiled, and asked, “What’ll it be, cutie?”

“Is it too late for bacon and eggs? Boiled?”

She glanced about the room, “Sure. Comes with toast and hash browns.”

“Sounds perfect...” I was tempted to add, “Mom”, but something stopped me. I was so invisible, so forgotten that she didn’t even seem to recognize me.

“Drink?”

“Coffee ... black.”

“Coming right up.” She turned and grabbed a mug off a peg board and poured coffee I wasn’t sure had been made this week in it, then put the ticket on the spinner. She then screamed out, “Pig on Board, Spike on an oval, and drown the kids.” And giggled to herself.

She’d always been fond of the diner lingo, even though it had been out of use for decades before she started working here, much less bought the place. That was even true for the rare times she cooked at home. Most of the time she’d just bring home meals cooked here, but she’d cook on her days off and scream out the lingo version of the name when she served it up.

She wandered to check on the customers and I checked my phone. I glanced at my siblings’ text messages. Nick’s last text was a year ago asking for a ‘quick grand’ to pay some bills. Clarence was four years ago. Charlotte was just after I’d gotten my own phone line. Sammy was two years ago cause he needed a 50 for gas. Ashley hadn’t texted me back since I told her she couldn’t stay in my studio when Mom kicked her out. I realized I didn’t have any from Mom or Dad. Just the two initial texts I’d sent with my new number and no response. I was curious if they’d even known I was gone.

I ran through my e-mail and texts and double checked the map while reminiscing about the summer when I was 12 and decided that rather than sharing a room with my three brothers I’d move into a tent in the backyard. Nobody had mentioned it till November when Clarence had wanted the tent to go to a music festival and had asked why it was set up in the backyard.

My mother returned and filled up my coffee with more week-old sludge. I didn’t look up initially, rather just muttering a “Thank you, Ma’am.”

I was taken aback when she ran the back of her hand down my arm. I looked up, “You look familiar, handsome. Did you grow up around here?” I know some waiters/waitresses used physical contact and a tiny bit of flirting to increase the tips, but that was not something my mother had ever done. Then it occurred to me that maybe she had figured it out.

“Yeah. I lived here till I graduated. Packed up and left the day after my family didn’t show up at the ceremony.”

She gave me a soft smile, “I thought you looked familiar. You must be the Owens’ boy. I think they’re about the only family that would miss one of their kid’s graduations.”

“Did you go to all of yours?”

She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt, “Oh, of course.” I couldn’t help glancing down at the newly exposed cleavage. She giggled, “Thought you might like the better view.”

I was a bit taken aback, “Are you flirting with me?”

“Am I not being subtle enough?”

“I ... are you sure you don’t remember me?”

“Sorry ... you do look like my ex-husband though. What is your name?”

“You can call me Griffin till you remember.”

“Going to make me guess?”

“I think that would be best. I spent quite a bit of time in your house when your boys were younger.”

“So, you must’ve had a huge crush on me. If you stick around an hour, you can live out those fantasies.”

From the back, I heard, “Order up.”

She spun on her heels and grabbed the plate before spinning back to me.

“Thank you, ma’am. Why in an hour?”

“Oh, that’s when my daughter, Charlotte comes on and I’m off shift.”

“Do you live nearby?”

That caused her to pause for just a moment, “You didn’t assume I still lived in the old house.”

“Lucky guess, I suppose.” I picked up the knife and spoon and cracked and deshelled my eggs with even pressure and some quick vertical strokes.

She reached out and rubbed my arm again, “You know my youngest does that the same way.”

“Ash?”

“You know her?”

“We haven’t spoken in a few years.”

“I’ll be back.”

She made her rounds again and I ate my food. There was a pit of anger growing in my gut. I’d always known I was invisible. I was the one that could just be forgotten, but that my mother could have a conversation with me ... that she could hit on me, proposition me and still not realize I was her son was just this growing mass of blackness and discomfort.

In spite of all that, the food tasted like home. She hadn’t made them herself, but these were the exact hashbrowns I was raised on. The bacon was the same exact degree of crispy at the end and rubber in the center as it was when I was six. The eggs were just over soft boiled so biting into them left a bit of runny yoke running down my chin.

I’d worked at Miller’s Grocer for my actual job, but before that I’d been forced to pitch in here when they didn’t have a kid or employee for an afternoon shift. I’d spent my share of afternoons stocking the napkin dispensers, frying burgers in the back, or ferrying plates out to my friends and the kind of asshole classmates that snickered behind your back after they sent their food back or tried to pretend you’d messed up their order.

I grabbed a napkin from one of those dispensers to wipe my chin before eating my toast. It was dry, just the butter from the griddle on it. My mother had never gotten those little packets of jam or jelly and instead kept a few squeeze bottle in a minifridge below the counter ... available on request.

While I was engrossed in memories, I felt a hand on my thigh reaching around me from behind, I spun on the stool out of surprise and saw my mother standing there. Her smile was sleek and thin; laced with something devious. She put her hand back down on my thigh and moved it over to my crotch and I felt my body betray my own sensibilities, “So, about that offer?”