PART 10 — The return of the extra chair
That afternoon I walked back home. The sun broke through the clouds, casting a golden glow over the city streets. The wind had completely died down. Everything felt lighter, more breathable, as if the city itself had been waiting for this moment of peace. When I opened the front door and stepped inside, the house still smelled of old wood and silence.
But the silence felt different. No longer oppressive and menacing, but calm. Like a room where a window has been opened after a long time to let in fresh air. I walked straight to the dining table. It was still there. The extra plate. The glass with the shiny rim. The chair that had served for twenty years as a witness to my regret. I picked up the plate, walked to the kitchen, and washed it with warm water and soap.
Not with haste, but with a sort of sacred calm, as if performing a ritual to close the book on the past. Afterward I dried it with a clean dishtowel and placed it neatly back in the cupboard, among the other plates where it had belonged all along. I pushed the chair up to the table. Right in its place. No longer an empty chair, but a chair waiting for what was to come.
For the day Emma and Daan would come here to eat. Not to dredge up the past, but to eat soup together and talk about the apple tree in the garden. My phone lay on the sideboard. I picked it up, searched the contact list—where until yesterday only the numbers for the doctor and the supermarket had stood—and dialed the number I had written down that morning.
It rang twice. “Emma speaking,” her voice sounded through the speaker. “Hey, sweetheart,” I said, and for the first time in twenty years I spoke that word without fear or shame. “Are you done with work yet?” “In a minute,” she replied. “Daan is asking if we’re going to bake pancakes tonight.” I smiled, as a warm tear rolled down my cheek. “Get the pan ready,” I said. “I’m on my way.”
