A Table for Two—and One Empty Chair

It was my birthday. I sat alone at a small table for two, just like I had the year before. And the year before that.

The corner booth was always my favorite—quiet, a little hidden, but near the window so I could watch people pass by. The restaurant was warm and peaceful, with soft jazz music playing overhead. The lights were low, and the walls were made of red brick, giving the whole place a cozy feeling. Like it was holding in stories and secrets.

A candle burned on my table. The flame danced gently as the wax melted and formed a little pool. My wine glass was half full, but I barely touched it. I kept looking at the empty chair across from me.

No coat. No plate. No person.

Three birthdays. Three years of waiting. And always the same ending—me, sitting alone, and Mark, my husband, full of excuses. “I had to work late.” “There was traffic.” “Something came up.”
But that night, I had reached my limit.

The waiter came by again. His smile was kind but different now. The kind you give someone you feel sorry for.

“Would you like to order, ma’am?” he asked softly.

I didn’t look at him right away. I was still staring at the chair across from me. Then I forced a small smile.

“I think I’ll be leaving soon.”

He nodded and walked away quietly. But I could feel it—the pity in the air, the sadness he didn’t say out loud.

I folded my napkin slowly and picked up my purse. My heels clicked against the tile floor as I walked past couples laughing, celebrating, clinking glasses. I walked through the door and into the cold night.

The air hit me like a splash of cold water. Sharp. Wakeful. Real.

Then I heard his voice.

“Sarah!”

I turned.
There he was. Mark. Out of breath, his tie loosened, his hair messy.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “There was traffic and I—”

“No,” I interrupted. My voice was calm, but it hurt to speak.
“You don’t get to do this again.”

“I tried—”

“You’ve tried for three years, Mark. Three birthdays. You always have a reason. I’m tired of it.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t care,” I said. My voice cracked, but I stayed strong.
“I’m your wife. I deserve more.”

He didn’t respond. Just looked down.

“You’ll get the divorce papers tomorrow.”

I turned and walked away. He didn’t follow.

Two Weeks Later

The papers were signed. He didn’t fight me on anything. I think, deep down, he knew it was time.

I stayed in the house. The silence was loud at first. But then it became soft. Comfortable. I started to get used to it.

I was folding towels one afternoon when I heard a knock at the door. When I opened it, I saw her—his mother. Evelyn.

She looked different than I remembered. Her usual perfect hair was messy. Her face, always so proud and stiff, was softer, like someone carrying something too heavy for too long.

“I know I’m not your favorite person,” she said.

“And I know you probably don’t want to see me. But I need to tell you something.”

I didn’t speak. I just stepped aside and let her in.

We sat at the kitchen table. The clock ticked too loud. She looked around like she didn’t know where to begin.

“You were always strong-willed,” she said. “But I never doubted that you loved him.”

“I did,” I said simply.

She nodded. “He loved you, too. Even if he didn’t always show it right.”

I stayed quiet.

Then she reached into her purse and handed me a folded piece of paper.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she said. “I didn’t think it was my place. But maybe it’s worse to keep it from you.”

I opened the paper. It was an address, written by hand.

“What is this?” I asked.

She stood and zipped her coat.

“Just go. You don’t have to talk to anyone. Just see it. If you ever loved him, even a little, you should know.”

Then she left.

The Cemetery

The address led to a small cemetery just outside of town. It was quiet—too quiet. The kind of place that feels like time stops.

I walked slowly between the headstones, reading names I didn’t recognize. Some graves were old, others newer. All of them marked with sorrow.

Then I saw it.

Lily Harper
Born: October 12, 2010
Died: October 12, 2020

My birthday. The same day.

I stood still. My heart dropped. The date hit me like a punch to the chest.

There were no poems on the stone. No carved angels. Just her name, two dates, and the weight of a life cut far too short.

I couldn’t stop staring at the stone. I read it again and again, like maybe it would change. But it didn’t.

Then I heard a voice behind me.

“What are you doing here?”

I turned.
It was Mark.

He looked thinner, older. His jacket was dusty. His eyes looked tired and hollow.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” he said.

“I didn’t expect this,” I whispered. “Who was she?”

He looked at the grave and said, “My daughter. From my first marriage.”

The words hit hard.

“She was ten. There was a car accident. Her mother and I… we couldn’t make it work after that. We divorced.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I just knelt beside the grave.

There were fresh flowers in a mason jar and a small plastic tiara beside them. The kind little girls wear when they want to feel like a princess.

“You came here every year?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Every year. On her birthday.”

“On my birthday,” I said softly.

He looked away.

“I tried to come to you. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to celebrate your life while grieving hers. It felt like a betrayal—to both of you.”

We sat down on a bench nearby. The air smelled like wet leaves and earth. The wind moved gently through the trees.

We sat in silence for a while.

Then I said, “I thought you didn’t care. I thought you forgot me.”

He turned to me. “I never forgot. I just didn’t know how to let you in.”

“You should’ve told me,” I said.

“I was scared,” he replied. “Scared that if I shared that pain, I’d lose you too.”

“You lost me anyway.”

He nodded. “I know.”

We sat for a long time. The pain was still there. But something else was, too—understanding.

One Year Later

The grief never fully left, but it stopped hurting as much.

We met again. We talked more. We told the truth.

One year after everything, Mark and I stood together at Lily’s grave. It was fall. The leaves were orange and gold, and the air was cool and quiet.

We left flowers. A tiny chocolate cake. A small tiara.

We sat on the same bench as before, this time holding hands.

Later, we drove to a little diner. We sat at a table near the window, like always.

He gave me a small box.

Inside was a necklace. A gold chain with a pendant shaped like a lily.

“For her,” he said. “And for you.”

I smiled through tears.

This time, he didn’t miss my birthday.
And now, he never would again.