THE EMPTY CHAIR
My grandmother June had loved those Saturdays just as much as Grandpa.
She would sit beside him with a cup of tea while he shouted at the television, argued with the referee, and explained tactics that nobody had asked him to explain.
She passed away twelve years ago.
But Grandpa never completely accepted that the chair beside his had become empty.
He kept her photograph in his wallet.
Sometimes, during a match, I would catch him touching the photograph with his thumb.
He never talked about it.
He didn’t have to.
The silence said enough.
As his health declined, I started worrying that there wouldn’t be many Saturdays left.
His heart had grown weaker.
Walking had become difficult.
Some days, even climbing the stairs left him exhausted.
Then the biggest match in years was announced.
The kind of match Grandpa had talked about for decades.
The kind of match people would still remember years later.
I knew immediately what I wanted to do.
I bought two premium accessible seats close to the field.
They cost more than I could comfortably afford.
But when I handed Grandpa the tickets, he stared at them without speaking.
Then his eyes filled with tears.
