After my wife Margaret passed away, holidays lost their sound. The house grew quieter each year, and the empty chairs seemed to multiply. This holiday, at seventy-eight, I decided things would be different. I planned a family dinner like we used to have—carefully, hopefully, the way Margaret always did. I woke early, spoke to her photograph like an old habit, and told myself that this would be the day I brought everyone back together. I cooked her recipes, set the table with familiar dishes, and made phone calls the way she once had, joking, nudging, pretending not to worry. Each promise I heard felt like a small victory. For the first time in a long while, I believed the house might feel alive again.
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