On Christmas Eve, I set the table for two, even though I knew Id be sitting there on my own. I took our good crystal glasses out of the cabinetthose treasured onesand placed them carefully on the table, then stepped back to take it all in.
Two sets of cutlery. Two plates. Two perfectly pressed napkins, folded just so.
Youd have thought that any moment now, he was about to walk through the door and tell me it was time to sit down, that it was chilly out, and that Christmas didnt wait for anyone. But he wasn’t going to walk in. He hadnt been here for a year now.
The phone was silent. My daughter wasnt going to come round. The grandchildren wouldnt be calling.
I ran my hand over the white tablecloth, the one with embroidered flowers I sewed myself when I was younger. He always loved that tablecloth. He used to say it reminded him of my eyes, back when we first met.
For a heartbeat, I smiledthe first time that day.
Id cooked his favourite dishes. Not because anyone would be here to eat them, but because its what Ive always done. Because somehow, my heart cant yet accept that the chair opposite will only ever be empty now.
I took my seat and looked over the table. It looked lovely, just as it always did at Christmas.
I found myself thinking about the last Christmas we shared. He was thin, but he sat with me, smiled, and asked me not to shut myself away when he was gone. To keep going. To carry on.
That day, I promised him.
The clock ticked on. Outside, fairy lights twinkled; laughter floated down the street, and you could hear children playing out in the snow. Somewhere, a real celebration was underway. Just not in this quiet sitting room.
Later that evening, my phone finally rang. A short call. A cheerful Merry Christmas. Quick. No questions. No time for lingering. Then back to silence.
I picked up the glass from his place, raised it gently, and whispered a thank youfor the years, for the love, for the simple luck of having belonged to someone.
After that, I started clearing the table. Slow, gentle work, the way you do when you know this wont come again.
Then I sat by the window in the dark. Outside, Christmas went on. Inside, there was only memory.
The table for two had been set. But the seat across from me stayed empty.
Have you ever laid a place for someone whos no longer herenot expecting them to come, but just because your heart isnt quite ready to let them go?
