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Elias gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He was a man of habit, a creature of comfort. And nothing represented comfort more than the Sunday morning pilgrimage to the Cracker Barrel off Exit 47. It was a ritual he shared with his father, Henry, for the last twenty years.

Henry was already waiting on the front porch rocking chairs when Elias pulled in, huddled under the awning, watching the rain. He stood slowly, his joints protesting the damp weather, and offered a tired smile. Henry was eighty, a man built by a lifetime of manual labor and simple pleasures. He didn't know about the diagnosis. Elias hadn't found the words. cracker barrel syrup nutrition

Elias looked at the bottle in his father's hand. The 26 grams of carbohydrates per serving stared back at him like a warning label from the Grim Reaper. But Henry’s smile was brighter than the neon "OPEN" sign in the window. Elias gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white

"You look tired, Eli," Henry said softly, breaking the silence. "You working too hard?" It was a ritual he shared with his