The Empty Seat at Dinner

We used to eat dinner together. Every single night.

No phones, no distractions. Just us — my parents, my younger sister Hiba, and me — around a chipped old wooden table that had seen birthdays, fights, tears, and so much laughter.

That table held our family together more than we realized.

Until one day, the chair at the end was empty.

My father never missed dinner. No matter how late he worked, how tired he was, he always showed up. He had this habit of tapping his glass gently three times before he spoke, just to get our attention. It became a family joke.

But on the night of March 3rd, he didn’t come home.

A heart attack.

Just like that — no warnings, no time to prepare, no chance to say goodbye. Life didn’t knock. It broke the door down.

The first night after his death, we still set the table for four.

No one said anything. We just... did it. Out of habit. Out of hope. Out of heartbreak.

My mother served the food in silence. Hiba stared at the chair. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it. His glass was there. Untouched. Waiting.

We didn’t touch our plates.

For weeks, that chair haunted us.

Every meal was quieter, heavier. My mother began talking less. Hiba kept asking questions like, “Where do people go when they die?” and “Do you think he still sees us?”

And me? I tried to act strong. I helped clean. I took care of bills. I answered calls from relatives.

But every night, I’d sit on the kitchen floor when no one was around and cry into a towel. Because strong doesn’t mean unbreakable.

One evening, maybe a month later, I came home late from work. The lights were dim. Hiba had fallen asleep on the couch. Mom was sitting alone at the table.

She had lit a candle and placed it in front of Dad’s chair.

“I know it’s silly,” she said quietly, “but it feels like he’s still here when I do this.”

It wasn’t silly.

It was sacred.

That night, we ate together again — just the three of us. But somehow, it didn’t feel like someone was missing. It felt like someone was watching. Like the love hadn’t left — just changed shape.

Grief is not a clean wound. It doesn’t bleed and heal in a straight line. It lingers in the quiet. It echoes in the laughter you stop yourself from having too soon.

But little by little, life returns.

We began sharing memories at the table again. Stories about Dad. Jokes he used to tell. Things he did that annoyed us. Things he did that saved us.

We laughed through tears. And it helped.

One day, Hiba said, “Bhai, should we put someone else in that chair now?”

Mom looked at me, and I smiled.

“No,” I said. “That chair is taken. Forever.”

Years have passed now.

We’ve repainted the kitchen. Gotten new chairs. But we still have that one old chair — the one with the worn arms and the squeaky leg. It sits in the corner, not at the table anymore, but it’s never been removed.

It reminds us of who we were.

And who we still are.

Because when someone leaves the table, they never really leave the room.

by :Abubakar khan