Chapter 2: An Empty Chair at the Table

On my sixtieth birthday, my daughter and son-in-law said they were busy with work, and my granddaughter had a last-minute tutoring session. They promised they’d make it up to me tomorrow.

I told myself not to be disappointed. Sixty’s just a number, right? Still, I felt hollow as the clock ticked past dinner, the house too quiet. They called, voices full of apologies, promising we’d celebrate the next day. I tried to believe them. I told myself I was being silly, that grown kids have their own lives, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. But deep down, I missed the chaos, the laughter, the mess of family crowded around the kitchen table. Who was I kidding?

Funny how life throws curveballs when you least expect it. That night, I stumbled on a local video online.

It was just dumb luck. I was scrolling through my phone, half-asleep, trying to distract myself from the ache in my chest. Never expected to see what I did—a video on the local news feed, thumbnail showing a silhouette I’d know anywhere. My finger hovered, then I tapped, heart thudding for reasons I couldn’t even name.

In a fancy hotel banquet room—my daughter, her husband, and granddaughter stood together with David Callahan and those two kids. The six of them were gathered around, singing happy birthday to the woman he’d cheated with all those years ago.

The room was dripping with gold and crystal, the kind of place I’d only seen in magazines. My family—my own flesh and blood—stood together, beaming, voices raised in a cheerful chorus. And at the center, like a queen on her throne, was Lisa Reynolds. The woman who’d taken everything from me.

My daughter even called her “Mom Lisa.” That one stung.

The words hit me like a slap. I watched Emily lean in, her arm around Lisa’s shoulders, smiling like nothing in the world was wrong. She said it clear as day—"Mom Lisa." I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach, my hands shaking so bad I nearly dropped my phone.

My daughter had told me she wanted to throw a big party for my sixtieth. I told her not to go overboard. She insisted, saying she’d seen all my years of hard work, and the celebration had to be grand.

She’d made such a fuss about it, too. "You deserve the world, Mom," she’d said, her eyes shining. I’d laughed it off, told her I didn’t need anything fancy, but inside, I’d felt seen, appreciated. For a moment, I let myself believe I mattered to someone again.

I felt so warm inside, truly touched.

That night, I’d gone to bed with a smile, replaying her words in my mind. I even pulled out my old photo albums, flipping through pictures of Emily growing up—her first bike, her graduation, her wedding day. I thought about how far we’d come, how hard I’d fought to give her a good life. For the first time in a while, I let myself feel proud.

All these years, I’d raised my daughter alone, watched her grow up, get married, and have her own child. My son-in-law was always respectful, treating me like his own mother. My granddaughter was sweet and always called me “Grandma” with a smile. I was happy. Little by little, the pain faded. Or so I thought.

I’d convinced myself that the past was behind me, that the wounds had finally scabbed over. Adam always made sure I had a seat at the table, Maddie ran into my arms every time she saw me, and Emily—well, she was my heart. I thought I’d built a new family from the ashes. I thought I was safe.

So when my daughter brought up the big birthday celebration, I was really moved. I looked forward to my sixtieth birthday.

I started planning little things—what dress I’d wear, which old friends I’d call. I found myself humming as I did the laundry, anticipation bubbling up in my chest. Sixty years, and I was finally going to be celebrated for once.

When you get older, you crave lively gatherings, want to see your children and grandchildren around you. That’s what gives life meaning.

It’s true—when you hit a certain age, the best gift is just having your people close. The house full of laughter, the smell of food, the sound of Maddie’s giggles echoing down the hallway. That’s what makes it all worth it. You start to realize that memories are the real treasure, not things.

So, on the big day, I got up early. I tidied up quickly, took my granddaughter Maddie to school, and after my daughter and son-in-law finished the breakfast I’d left on the table, they each headed to work.

I watched them leave, waving from the doorway as the morning sun spilled across the lawn. I packed Maddie’s lunch, tucking in a little note—just like I used to for Emily. I made sure Adam’s coffee was just the way he liked it, and left a sticky note on the fridge reminding Emily to take her vitamins. Old habits die hard.

My daughter said she and her husband would wrap up work in the morning, then come home early to throw me a birthday party.

She kissed me on the cheek before she left, promising she’d be home by noon. "Don’t do any cleaning, Mom! Today’s your day." I promised, but of course, I couldn’t help myself. I straightened the cushions, dusted the shelves, and checked the oven twice. I wanted everything to be perfect for them.

I stayed home, cleaning while I waited.

I tried to keep busy—folded laundry, organized the pantry, even watered the plants twice. Every little noise made me glance at the clock. I set out the good plates, the ones I saved for special occasions. The house was spotless, but the hours crawled by, and the silence started to feel heavy.