“Yes.”
“Why?”
I traced the little scratch with my fingertip.
“Because I don’t want to forget what I survived.”
He nodded.
And he understood.
On the first Sunday of December, I hosted a family dinner.
Ruth arrived with apple pie. June brought a handmade centerpiece decorated with pinecones. Daniel carried in a basket of fresh rolls from the bakery Peter used to love.
I had invited a young single mother named Amelia from down the street, along with her little boy, who had recently moved to the neighborhood.
They had been spending most evenings alone, and I remembered what that felt like.
We extended the oak table with both its extra leaves.
Eight chairs surrounded it.
There were candles in the center, roasted chicken in the oven, and the sound of June laughing as Amelia’s son tried to fold napkins into complicated shapes.
Daniel stood beside me in the kitchen.
“Need help with anything, Mom?”
I handed him a dish towel.
“You can dry those plates.”
He smiled.
“Yes, ma’am.”
For a moment, I saw the little boy he had once been, eager to help his father in the workshop, certain that everything broken could be fixed with enough patience.
I knew better now.
Some things could never be restored to exactly what they had been.
But that didn’t mean they couldn’t become something good again.
We carried the food to the table together.
June insisted that I sit at the end where Peter used to sit.
“Grandma, that’s your place now.”
I looked at the chair.
For years, I had avoided sitting there because it made his absence feel too real.
But tonight, surrounded by warm voices and familiar faces, I pulled it out.
The chair creaked softly beneath me.
