Not Alyssa losing her job.

Not the shocking reunion.

It was the second before all of that.

My mother standing at the hostess stand.

Seventy-eight.

Cane.

Old dress.

Worn handbag.

No secret connection revealed yet.

No owner rushing forward.

No remarkable biography available as defense.

Just a woman with a valid reservation asking to be seated.

She already belonged there.

That was the whole point.