At 3:45 on Christmas afternoon, after I had spent two days cooking dinner for my son and daughter-in-law, my doorbell finally rang. It wasn’t them. A courier handed me a manila envelope in Lauren’s handwriting: “We decided to spend Christmas at my mom’s house this year. Last minute change. Hope you understand.” My husband had been gone only nine months. By sunrise the next morning, I found another envelope hidden outside in Richard’s handwriting, and the message inside sent me straight to the desk he had told me not to touch.

I thought about Richard’s journal upstairs.

About one of the last lines he had written.

If I don’t get to grow old with her, I hope she still grows old.

Not waiting.

Living.

I raised my glass toward the dark yard.

“Merry Christmas, Richard.”

For a second, I could almost hear him.

Probably complaining that Gloria’s rolls were dry.

I laughed.

Then I stood and went back inside.

There was coffee to pour.

Pie to cut.

A story about Richard’s plaid jacket that required correction.

And a table full of people who had come because they wanted to be there.

One year earlier, I had waited for people who never arrived.

This Christmas, nobody’s chair was empty.

Disclaimer: This story is fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. Any names, characters, places, or events are fictitious or used fictitiously. No real person or organization is intended to be portrayed.