He chuckled, soft and familiar. God, I can still hear that sound.
“Dinner’s already on the table,” I said. “Everything’s hot.”
“I know,” he replied gently. “I can almost smell it. You made that chicken I like, didn’t you?”
“The one you always steal extra pieces from.”
There was a pause. Comfortable. Ordinary. The kind of silence that comes from years of knowing someone completely.
“You sound exhausted,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“I am,” he admitted. “But I’ll be home before the kids finish arguing.”
I hesitated, just for a second. “Okay. Just don’t take too long.”
“I won’t. Tell them I’m on my way.”
“And hey,” he added, his voice softening. “Thanks for waiting.”
“Always.”
“Save me a plate.”
“I will. Hurry home.”
That was the last time I ever heard my husband’s voice.
After we hung up, I went back to the kitchen and tried to keep everything normal. I told the kids their dad was just stopping at the store and would be back any minute. I reheated his plate, covered it with foil, and set it aside the way I always did when he ran late.
An hour passed. Then two.
I sent a message, keeping it casual so I wouldn’t scare myself: Are you driving?
No reply.
I called. It rang until voicemail picked up.
That was when the feeling shifted. Not panic yet—just a heavy unease settling into my chest. Ethan wasn’t the kind of man who forgot to text. If he was delayed, he always let me know.
I told myself there was a simple explanation. A long line. A dead battery. The kids finished dinner and asked if Daddy got lost. I laughed too quickly and sent them to brush their teeth.
When the house finally went quiet, I sat alone at the table, staring at the plate I’d saved.
By then, it was too late.
I called the police, and the search started immediately. Within hours, they found Ethan’s car abandoned near a back road by the woods. The door was open. The windshield cracked. His wallet and phone were still inside.
Search teams combed the area for days. Dogs were brought in. Helicopters circled overhead.
They never found Ethan.
Weeks turned into months. The searches slowed, then stopped. Officially, he was still missing. Unofficially, people began speaking about him in the past tense.
I never did.
Six years passed. I learned how to function while carrying a constant ache inside me. I smiled for my kids. I showed up to school events. Life kept moving forward even though part of me was frozen in that December evening.
I didn’t pack away Ethan’s things. His jacket still hung by the door. His sweater remained draped over the chair in our bedroom. People told me I needed to let go, that holding on was hurting me.
But hope isn’t loud. It’s the empty chair at dinner. The clothes you can’t fold away. The plate you keep setting even when no one comes home.
Our dog Max became my quiet companion through all of it. We’d adopted him the year before Ethan disappeared. Some evenings, Max would sit by the door, staring at it like he was waiting for something I couldn’t see. Continue reading…
