For three years, I kept my son’s place at the table like a quiet ritual I couldn’t explain. Then one rainy afternoon, a soaked soldier showed up at my door, said my name, and handed me something that made my hands go cold.I was 52, and for three years I did something I didn’t tell anyone.Every night, I set a plate at the table for my son.Not because I expected Gideon to walk in and say, “What’s for dinner, Mom?” like he used to after football practice. I wasn’t that kind of desperate.It was because if I stopped, it would feel like admitting he wasn’t coming back.Gideon enlisted at nineteen. He promised, “One tour. Then I’m home.”One tour became two.Two became three.

At first he called every Sunday. Then every other. Then only when he could.After his third tour started, his texts got shorter.hen they stopped.I called the liaison number and got a man with a smooth voice who kept saying, “Ma’am, that can happen.”I said, “So can death.”He said, “If there were an emergency, you’d be notified.”I wanted to believe him. kept Gideon’s room the same. Same bed. Same dumb Mustang poster. Same cereal he liked even though it tasted like cinnamon dust and regret.My neighbor, Denise, asked once, “You heard from him?”I forced a smile. “He’s busy.”Denise stared at me like she didn’t buy it, then said, “I’m here, okay?”