All my daughter wanted for her ninth birthday was a burger from Dale’s Diner—a place she’d only seen in pictures. I’d saved what little I could, hoping to give her a memory worth more than any gift. That morning, she made a wish over birthday pancakes, whispering, “I want that burger, Mama. With the soft bun and the crinkle fries.” I wiped syrup from her cheek and said, “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

We dressed like it was Easter Sunday. She wore her best dress and I curled her hair with a blue ribbon, just how she liked. The walk to the diner felt magical. Emily skipped beside me, her face lit with excitement. Inside, the smell of burgers and pie filled the air. The red vinyl booths, the little jukeboxes—it was just like her dream.

A young waiter named Logan took our order, smirking when Emily chose the Birthday Burger. But then he laughed cruelly, saying, “That’s just sad. I got a car at her age.” His words stung. Emily shrank, and I stood quickly. “We’re leaving,” I said, my heart breaking.

That’s when an older man approached. “Please don’t go,” he said gently. “Let me fix this.” He crouched beside Emily. “You deserve to try anything you want.” I blinked. “Are you the manager?” “No, ma’am. I’m Dale. I own this place.”

Dale made Logan apologize and promised us birthdays on the house, every year. “Love always is enough,” he said. As Emily bit into her burger, giggling through grease and joy, I knew we’d never forget this day.

There is still magic in the world.