Chapter 14 - The Empty Chair
On Grandpa's third death anniversary, we held dinner at Blackthorn Hall.
Small.
Grant.
Margaret.
Arthur.
Several center staff.
Maya, now fifteen.
Two scholarship students.
No politicians.
No investors.
No audience selected for status.
An empty chair remained beside me.
My mother's old place.
For years, emptiness at family tables felt like accusation.
That night, it felt like memory.
Grant raised his glass.
“To Henry.”
Arthur added, “Difficult man.”
Everyone laughed.
“To Caroline,” Margaret said.
I looked toward Mom's portrait.
It remained on the staircase.
But the hidden compartment behind it was empty now.
No more secrets.
“To people who tell us the truth while they're still alive,” I said.
Arthur laughed.
“That's ambitious.”
We drank.
Outside, children rehearsed a play in the converted conservatory.
Blackthorn Hall was noisy now.
Grandpa would have complained.
May you like
Then secretly loved it.
I was certain.
