Next year became another decade.
I looked at the chair.
“Who sent this?”
Mom didn’t answer.
“Mom.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I know who sent it.”
“Who?”
She took a long time before answering.
Then she said, “I asked her to.”
I stared at her.
“You arranged this?”
“Months ago.”
“Why?”
“The house was being cleared. I called one of the women your father grew up with. We still had her address from the Christmas cards.”
“And she still had his chair?”
Mom nodded.
“She laughed when I asked.”
“What did she say?”
“‘We still have the silly thing.’”
I looked down at the worn blue paint.
Mom wiped her face.
“I thought if he saw it here, maybe he’d finally understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That he hadn’t disappeared from them just because he’d stayed away.”
Her plan had been to put the chair at our kitchen table.
