Then, the first chime of the phone broke the spell.
“DAD, I’M SORRY. WORK RAN LATE. I doubt I can make dinner.” — Sarah.
Arthur’s thumb hovered over the screen. He typed three different responses before settling on a simple, heartbreaking: “I’ll keep it warm.”
Minutes later, Michael called. The kids were “wiped.” Maybe next weekend?
Then the grandkids texted. “School stuff.” “Plans.” “We’ll FaceTime later.”
Arthur stood alone in his dining room. The table was a masterpiece of Margaret’s best china, polished silver, and festive linens. Eight chairs were tucked neatly around the spread. Eight chairs. Zero guests.
He picked up a dish towel, his hands shaking. “Who needs old people anyway?” he whispered, his voice cracking like dry parchment. He began to clear the first plate when a sound stopped him.
It wasn’t a car door. It was a knock.
It wasn’t the polite, rhythmic knock of a neighbor. This was a heavy, authoritative thud that rattled the doorframe.
When Arthur opened it, he wasn’t greeted by his son or daughter. He was staring at the badges of two police officers.
“Arthur Patterson?” the older officer asked.
“Yes?”
