I waited four hours for my six kids to arrive for my 60th birthday. Four hours is a long time to sit in a quiet house with seven place settings and a stomach full of hope. Completely alone, on top of that.
When I married their dad, he used to say he wanted a big family.
“A loud house,” he’d laugh. “A table that’s never empty.”
We had six kids in 10 years. Mark. Jason. Caleb. Grant. Sarah. Eliza.
Four boys, two girls, and enough noise to shake the walls.
Then one day their dad decided the noise was too much. He met a woman online. Overseas. Within months, he packed a suitcase and left, saying he “needed to find himself.”
I cooked their favorites. I set the table for seven. My good plates. Cloth napkins I ironed because I wanted the night to feel like it mattered.
At four, I peeked through the blinds like a kid.
At five, I texted the group chat. “Drive safe.”
At six, I called Mark. Voicemail. Jason. Voicemail. Caleb. Voicemail. Eliza. Voicemail. Grant. Straight to voicemail, like it didn’t even ring.
At seven, the food cooled. At eight, the candles burned low. At nine, I sat at the head of the table and stared at six empty chairs.
I tried to tell myself I was being dramatic. But the silence felt personal.
I cried into the napkin I had ironed that morning.
Then there was a knock at the door. Not a friendly knock. A firm, official knock.
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