Chapter 10 - The Head of the Table
By October, the leaves on the red oaks Arthur and I had planted thirty years ago turned a brilliant, burning crimson.
Thanksgiving dinner was held at the main house.
The long oak dining table was draped in a linen tablecloth, set with the family crystal, silver, and fresh autumn centerpieces. The scent of roasted turkey, fresh sage, and warm apple pies filled every corner of the home my late husband and I had built.
Eighteen people gathered around the table—Claire, Lily, Owen, Marcus Sterling, Evelyn Vance, and several close neighbors who had stood by us through the turbulent year.
As everyone took their seats, chatting and laughing loudly, Claire walked over to the head of the table.
She pulled out the heavy oak chair—the chair where Brandon had tried to place his mother eleven months ago—and looked at me with deep, shining eyes.
"Mom," Claire said, her voice carrying clearly over the warm room. "Your seat is waiting."
The room grew quiet. Everyone looked toward me.
I walked over to the head of the table, looking down at the hand-carved wood that Arthur had sanded with his own hands so many years ago. I felt the warmth of my home, the safety of my family, and the unshakeable peace that comes from refusing to be erased.
I sat down in my chair.
I looked around the table at my daughter, who was standing tall and confident; at my grandchildren, who were safe and happy; and at the friends who loved us for who we truly were.
I lifted my wineglass, a soft smile resting on my lips.
May you like
"To family," I said, my voice strong and unwavering. "To home. And to knowing exactly where you belong."
"To home!" everyone echoed in unison, their glasses clinking together in a chorus of joy that filled the house and echoed far into the peaceful autumn night.
