After my wife, Margaret, died two years ago, the holidays went quiet. This year, I was determined to bring my family back together. I’m 78, and I cooked all day—using Margaret’s recipe book, setting the table the way she used to, and calling everyone like she always did.
Sarah laughed when I teased her about being late. Michael chuckled when I promised I’d eat all the potatoes if he didn’t show. Even the grandkids gave me a “maybe,” which felt like hope.
Then the cancellations came. Sarah: work ran late. Michael: the kids were tired. The grandkids: plans and school. One message at a time, the eight chairs became empty again. I stared at the table and tried not to feel foolish for wanting something so simple.
Then someone pounded on my door.
Police officers stood on my porch and arrested me for an aggravated assault from 1992. I was stunned—certain it was a mistake—but they said they had a manifest and an eyewitness. In holding, I answered questions, shaking with disbelief, until the truth finally surfaced: wrong man. Mistaken identity.
That’s when the door burst open at the station—neighbors. Linda’s son, our pastor, and people I’ve helped over the years all arrived, loudly defending me. The sergeant released me.
Outside, my kids were waiting—but instead of relief, they accused me of staging the arrest to force them to show up. Something in me broke.
I told them I wouldn’t beg anyone to love me.
And that night, the dinner table filled anyway—not with my family, but with my community. All eight chairs were full.
