"THE EMPTY CHAIR AT THE HEAD OF THE TABLE

We sat in silence for a long time. The café clock ticked past 11:00 PM.

Outside, the snowplows were finally beginning to rumble down Main Street, their orange lights flashing against the darkened storefronts.

“Where are you going to sleep tonight?” Claire asked softly, her voice small. “You can’t stay here.”

“I’m not staying here,” I answered. “I’m going back home.”

Claire looked up in surprise. “Back home? But Brandon and Donna and the kids are still there! The house is full!”

“I know the house is full,” I said, standing up from the booth and grabbing my coat. “And by the time I walk back through that front door, it’s going to be empty again.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I said, buttoning my wool coat and pulling my knit cap over my ears, “that Christmas is over. And visiting hours are finished.”

I didn't wait for her to process my words. I turned and walked toward the glass door of the café, stepping out into the crisp, biting Ohio night. The snow crunched beneath my boots as I began the six-block walk back to Maple Street, my head held high, the freezing wind stinging my cheeks like a sharp reminder that I was alive, awake, and entirely accountable for my own life.

When I reached the corner of Maple and Tenth, the familiar brick silhouette of my two-story house loomed against the starry winter sky.

Lights blazed from every downstairs window. Through the living room sheer curtains, I could see shadows moving—people pacing, arguing, gesticulating wildly.

Brandon was still holding court.

I walked up the shovelled sidewalk—shovelled by me yesterday morning—and climbed the steps to the deep front porch. I didn't knock. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my heavy brass key, and slid it smoothly into the deadbolt.