The room slowly returned to life.
Jason brought out the cake.
Sarah wiped her eyes.
Eliza kept apologizing.
Mark stood beside me with his head lowered.
“I really am sorry, Mom.”
I looked at him.
“All of you are.”
He nodded.
“We should have known you’d worry.”
“You think?”
He smiled weakly.
I couldn’t help laughing.
It was the first real laugh I’d had all night.
The candles were relit.
Everyone gathered around the table.
Six children.
One mother.
And enough food to feed an army.
Jason raised his glass.
“To Mom.”
Everyone lifted theirs.
“To Mom!”
I looked around the table.
The same children who had once filled our house with noise were now grown adults.
They had jobs.
Homes.
Responsibilities.
Problems of their own.
And yet, sitting around that table, they still looked like my children.
For years, I had worried that after their father left, our family would never feel whole again.
Maybe I had been wrong.
Maybe family wasn’t about having the perfect story.
Maybe it was about finding your way back to one another.
I looked at Grant.
He was still wearing his uniform.
“You’re keeping that on all night?”
He grinned.
“Absolutely.”
I rolled my eyes.
Everyone laughed.
Then Sarah stood up.
“There’s one more thing.”
I frowned.
“What?”
She pointed toward the cake.
“Read the writing.”
I leaned forward.
The cake said:
60 YEARS OF LOVING THE MOST DIFFICULT PEOPLE ON EARTH.
I burst out laughing.
“You people!”
Jason pointed at Grant.
“He was the one who came up with it.”
Grant immediately protested.
“That’s not true!”
Everyone started talking at once.
And suddenly, the room was loud again.
Just like it had been years ago.
The way their father had once said he wanted it.
A loud house.
A table that was never empty.
I looked at the six people around me.
And for the first time that evening, I realized something.
The empty chairs had hurt.
But they weren’t empty anymore.
