The first hour passed slowly.
I kept myself busy.
There were dishes to check and serving utensils to arrange.
I moved the pie to a safer place.
I checked the temperature of the food.
Then I returned to the dining room.
I looked at the six empty chairs.
They were still waiting.
I tried to imagine which child would arrive first.
Perhaps the oldest would come early.
That would have been like him.
Or perhaps one of the girls would arrive with a story to tell.
I could already imagine the way she would sit down and begin talking before taking off her coat.
I smiled.
Then I noticed the driveway was still empty.
I returned to the kitchen.
At five-thirty, I checked my phone.
There were no new messages.
I opened the family group again.
My message was still there.
The little announcement about dinner and safe driving sat among the earlier conversations.
Nobody had replied.
I stared at it for a moment.
Then I closed the conversation.
I didn't want to become one of those mothers who constantly demanded attention.
I had always disliked that kind of behavior.
I wanted my children to come because they wanted to see me.
Not because I had made them feel guilty.
So I waited.
At six o'clock, I began to wonder whether somebody had been delayed.
That seemed reasonable.
Traffic could be unpredictable.
A work responsibility could have appeared unexpectedly.
One of the children might have needed to take care of something at home before leaving.
There were plenty of explanations.
I tried to choose the kindest one.
I decided to call my oldest son.
I expected him to answer.
When the call went through to voicemail, I assumed he was busy.
I ended the call without leaving a message.
I didn't want to interrupt him.
I waited a little longer.
Then I tried again.
The result was the same.
I looked at the phone.
Perhaps he had put it somewhere and forgotten it.
Perhaps he was driving.
I set it down.
I told myself that one unanswered call meant nothing.
There was no reason to panic.
I had spent too many years worrying about everything.
I didn't need to do that tonight.
I returned to the kitchen and checked the food.
The meal was ready.
I had planned everything so carefully that there was nothing left to do except serve it.
That should have been a pleasant feeling.
Instead, I found myself looking at the clock again.
Six-fifteen.
I walked to the front window.
Nothing.
I looked farther down the street.
A vehicle passed.
For a second, I thought it might turn toward the house.
It continued straight ahead.
I stood there longer than necessary.
Then I went back inside.
The house felt different when nobody else was expected to arrive immediately.
Every little sound seemed louder.
The refrigerator started.
The heating system clicked.
The clock continued marking the minutes.
I had never noticed how much noise a quiet house could make.
At six-thirty, I called one of my daughters.
It rang.
I waited.
Nobody answered.
I tried not to take it personally.
Maybe she was occupied with her own family.
Maybe she was helping someone with dinner.
I imagined her seeing my missed call and promising herself she would ring back.
I wanted to believe that.
I called another child.
Nothing.
I tried the next.
Again, there was no answer.
By then, I had begun to feel uncomfortable.
Not angry.
Not yet.
Just confused.
I couldn't understand why nobody had sent even a brief message.
A simple explanation would have been enough.
I would have understood a delay.
I would have understood a change of plans.
I might have been disappointed, but at least I would have known what was happening.
Instead, I had six children who were apparently unreachable.
I placed my phone beside the kitchen sink.
Then I picked it up again.
I checked the family conversation.
No response.
I looked at the time.
Six-forty.
I started thinking about whether I should send another message.
I didn't want to appear impatient.
I had already told them the dinner was ready.
They knew where I lived.
They knew what time I had expected them.
Another message wouldn't make them arrive any faster.
Still, I wanted to ask whether everything was all right.
I typed a few words.
Then I erased them.
I typed again.
I erased those too.
Eventually, I put the phone down.
I had no idea that such a small decision would stay with me.
Because I was trying so hard not to bother my own children that I had stopped myself from asking the one question I desperately wanted answered.
Was everybody safe?
At seven o'clock, the food had begun to cool.
I noticed it when I checked the serving dishes.
I considered turning the heat back on.
Then I wondered whether someone might arrive at any moment.
I didn't want to make the meal worse by reheating everything too early.
So I waited.
I moved around the kitchen.
I straightened the tablecloth.
I checked the glasses.
I returned to the hallway.
Nothing.
The front door remained closed.
The driveway remained empty.
I called my oldest son again.
Voicemail.
I tried the daughters.
No answer.
I called the others.
Nothing.
I began to recognize the pattern.
It wasn't one person being unavailable.
It was everybody.
And nobody had thought to tell me why.
I sat down for a moment.
The chair felt uncomfortable, though it had never bothered me before.
I looked at the table.
There were seven plates.
My plate was at the head.
The other six were arranged along the sides.
I had placed the napkins carefully.
I had made sure the cutlery was positioned properly.
One of the glasses caught the light from the kitchen.
I stared at it.
I thought about how much time I had spent preparing.
Then I felt foolish.
Not because I had cooked.
Not because I had invited them.
But because I had allowed myself to become so certain that they would come.
I had already pictured the evening.
I had already imagined the conversations.
I had already decided which stories I wanted to hear.
I had made room in my mind for six people who had not yet appeared.
I stood up.
There was still a chance.
I repeated that to myself.
There was still a chance.
At seven-thirty, I checked the phone again.
Nothing.
I wondered whether I had made a mistake with the date.
I opened the calendar.
I checked the day.
I checked the month.
There was no mistake.
It was my birthday.
It was the evening I had asked them to come.
I remembered the conversations when I had first invited them.
I remembered the responses that had made me hopeful.
I couldn't make those memories fit with the silence in front of me.
I went outside briefly.
The air was cooler than it had been earlier.
I looked along the road.
There were no familiar cars.
I listened.
No engine slowed near the house.
No footsteps approached.
I went back inside.
The smell of the dinner was still pleasant, but it no longer made me happy.
The kitchen looked too prepared.
The dining room looked too formal.
The seven places seemed almost like an accusation.
I took my phone to the table and sat down.
I tried calling Grant.
He was my fourth child.
His name appeared on the screen.
I watched it ring.
I remembered his voice.
I remembered the way he sometimes called when he needed somebody to listen.
There had been difficult periods in his life.
His father's departure had affected him in ways that were not always obvious.
He had struggled during his younger years.
Even after becoming an adult, he sometimes found himself overwhelmed by problems he didn't know how to handle.
I had always tried to be there for him.
Sometimes he called during the day.
Sometimes he called late at night.
There were occasions when I had been half asleep when the phone rang.
I would answer anyway.
It was Grant.
And I was his mother.
I never wanted him to feel that he had to wait until morning to talk to me.
I remembered those calls as I listened to the phone ringing.
No answer.
I ended the call.
I didn't leave a message.
I thought perhaps he was driving.
Perhaps he was with someone.
Perhaps he would call later.
I put the phone down.
Then I looked at the clock.
Eight o'clock.
The birthday candles had burned lower.
I went to the kitchen and turned off what needed turning off.
There was no reason to keep the food warm indefinitely.
I covered some of the dishes.
I left the table untouched.
I couldn't bring myself to clear it.
That would have meant accepting something I wasn't ready to accept.
I returned to my chair.
My sixtieth birthday was passing.
And I was alone.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: Six Empty Chairs Surrounded Me When I Finally Stopped Making Excuses, Until Three Knocks Brought a Message I Never Expected
I Had Spent My Whole Life Making Sure My Children Never Felt Alone, Yet That Evening I Could Not Get One of Them to Come Home
Part 3 of 4
