My breath caught.
For six years, I had remembered Howard through an empty chair.
Here he was reminding me why he had always pulled mine out.
Daniel covered his eyes.
“He taught me better.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “He did.”
I let him hold my hand while I cried.
That Christmas, there were four places at my smaller table: Ruth, her sister, Daniel, and me.
Daniel cooked. Ruth brought pie. I offered to help twice, then sat by the window and let the kitchen belong to someone else’s effort.
When dinner was ready, my son came to get me.
My old place card stood beside a plate of our good china.
Howard’s chair had been brought to the table.
Nobody had assigned it to a memory.
I sat down, unfolded my napkin, and listened as the people I loved settled around me.
The food was hot.
The room was warm.
And I was there for all of it.
