Chapter 17 - The Table Daniel Asked For
We held the dinner on Daniel’s birthday.
Thomas suggested it.
One table.
Exactly as Daniel had imagined in his videotape.
Dad.
Mom.
Me.
Thomas.
Lillian.
Nathan.
Baby Daniel.
Rebecca.
Samuel.
There was one empty chair.
Nobody found it morbid.
It belonged there.
On the plate sat Daniel’s photograph and the silver compass.
Dad cooked.
Badly.
Mom secretly ordered backup food.
Thomas caught her.
“I won't tell him.”
“You're officially family.”
During dessert, Dad stood.
Thomas groaned.
“No speeches.”
“Short one.”
“That’s what politicians say.”
Dad laughed.
Then looked at the empty chair.
“I spent most of my life thinking family history was something you could edit.”
The room quieted.
“I removed the parts that embarrassed me.”
He looked at Thomas.
“And people paid for that.”
Then at me.
“Especially my children.”
His voice trembled.
“I can't restore the years I stole.”
He lifted his glass.
“But I can stop stealing the ones we have left.”
We toasted.
Later, Thomas found me outside.
“Do you forgive him?”
I considered the question.
“I don't think forgiveness happened all at once.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means yesterday I trusted him with something I wouldn't have trusted him with two years ago.”
“What?”
“My spare house key.”
Thomas laughed.
“Very emotional.”
“For me, that's practically a love letter.”
He smiled.
Then became thoughtful.
“I think Dad would be happy.”
“I hope so.”
“No.”
Thomas looked through the window at our family.
“I think he would.”
Inside, Nathan was trying to stop baby Daniel from eating a napkin.
Lillian was laughing.
Mom was arguing with Dad about dessert.
Rebecca was showing Samuel old photographs.
Messy.
Loud.
Imperfect.
Family.
Daniel had asked for one table.
Twenty years later, he finally had it.
Then Thomas handed me the silver compass.
“This should be yours.”
“Rebecca gave it to you.”
“She gave it to our family.”
I turned it over.
FIND YOUR WAY HOME.
I looked through the window again.
May you like
“I think it already did.”
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