On Christmas night, I set the table for two, although I knew Id be dining alone.
I took the pair of crystal goblets from the cabinet, my hands trembling ever so slightly. I placed them gently on the starched linen, then stood back, as if waiting.
Two sets of cutlery.
Two blue-and-white plates.
Two napkins, ironed crisp, sharp-edged as frosty panes.
It almost felt as though, at any moment, he would slip through the door, coat dusted with snow, and declare that it was time to sit down. That the night was chill and Christmas waited for no one.
But he was not coming in.
He had been gone a year now.
My phone was still and silent.
My daughter wasn’t coming.
There would be no little ones voices on the lineno eager, piping greetings from my grandchildren.
I ran my hand over the white tablecloth, embroidered in roses and thistles. Id sewn it myself, in those distant young years. He used to say it always reminded him of my eyes before age dimmed them.
For a fleeting moment, my lips curled in a smilethe first all day.
I cooked his favourite dishes, not out of hope for guests, but simply because it was habit, woven through me like silver thread. My heart refused to accept the emptiness across from me.
I took my place and looked at the setting. It was beautiful, as always, when Christmas found its way into this house.
I remembered our final Christmas together. Hed grown so thin, but he sat across from me, smiled, and made me promise: not to close in on myself when he was gone. To keep living. To not shrink beneath the silence.
I promised, then.
The clock ticked in the hush. Outside, fairy lights glowed across neighbours hedges. Laughter drifted down the lane, children shrieked and skidded through snowy gardens. Somewhere, people celebrated. But not in this hushed little room.
Late in the evening, the phone finally rang. A brief exchangea festive cheer, hurried, breathless, almost not real. No questions, no time or warmth to linger.
Then silence, once more.
I took the goblet from across the table, raised it gently, and whispered my thanksfor the years, for love, for the fact that I had been truly cherished.
Then I cleared the table, unhurried, slow, the way you put away something you know will not return.
I sat by the dark window. Outside, Christmas pressed on, with its lights and music and echoing merriment.
Inside was only memory.
The table was set for two.
But the other chair was empty.
Have you ever found yourself laying a place for someone who is gonenot because you expect them to walk in, but because your heart cannot bear to let theirs go?
On Christmas Eve, I Set the Table for Two Though I Knew I’d Be Dining Alone — The Crystal Glasses, t…
