The Second Place Setting

I still set two glasses on the table.

It would look strange otherwise.

The larger one goes on the right, where it always has. I polish it before placing it down, though no one comments anymore. The fork rests angled slightly inward. The napkin is folded twice, not three times. Precision keeps things steady.

By the time the family arrives, the house looks correct.

My sister brings the wine, along with my nephew. She pauses briefly in the doorway — just long enough to notice. Her eyes move across the table and settle, briefly, on the chair across from mine.

She says nothing.

No one does.

Dinner proceeds in careful increments. Conversation stays within safe borders — traffic, weather, the neighbor’s dog. When someone laughs too loudly, it sounds rehearsed.

The chair beside me remains unoccupied.

It has remained unoccupied long enough to feel intentional.

I pass the bread basket, skipping the empty space without looking at it. My hand no longer hesitates. Adjustments become a habit if repeated often enough.

Almost through the meal, my nephew looks up from his plate.

“Why doesn’t—”

The room stills.

Not dramatically. Just completely.

My father clears his throat. My sister reaches for her glass. I cut my food into smaller pieces than necessary.

The silence settles back into place.

Someone asks about school.

Dinner continues.

The plates are cleared in the same order as always.

Mine first. Then my father’s. Then my sister’s. Then my nephew’s. Then the empty one last. It would be wrong to rush it.

In the kitchen, the faucet runs longer than required. Water fills the space where words might gather.

No one mentions that I still cook for six.

Dessert arrives already sliced.

No one mentions the extra piece.

After they leave, the hallway light remains on. The bedroom door upstairs stays closed. The window is locked from the inside.

I check it each night.

Upstairs, nothing has shifted. The left side of the bed remains smooth. The closet holds what it always has. The suitcase stays on the top shelf.

I do not need that.

Some things are easier when they remain exactly where they were left.

In the kitchen, I dry the second glass and place it upside down beside the sink. It leaves a ring on the counter.

I wiped it away.

The house settles once the lights are off. Pipes shift. Wood cools. The quiet deepens.

In the dark, I listen for movement that does not come.

No one asks.

Next Thursday, I will set two glasses again.