Margaret’s days followed a pattern so predictable it could have been mistaken for ritual.
She made her coffee slowly, carefully measuring each spoon of grounds like it mattered. She would sit by the kitchen window, watching the street come alive—neighbors rushing to work, children waiting for the school bus, delivery trucks passing by without ever stopping at her door.
No one visited anymore.
Her son, Daniel, had moved to California years ago. At first, he called every Sunday. Then every other Sunday. Then once a month. Eventually, the calls stopped altogether. Margaret told herself he was busy. That life was complicated. That distance had a way of reshaping love into something quieter.
She never called him first.
Pride, perhaps. Or fear of hearing indifference in his voice.
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The afternoons were the hardest.
That was when the memories came.
She would sit in the living room, surrounded by furniture that had outlived its purpose. The couch where her husband used to nap. The armchair where she had knitted sweaters that no one wore anymore. The old radio that barely worked but still hummed with static when she turned the dial.
Sometimes, she spoke out loud, just to remind herself she still could.
“I made your favorite today,” she would say to no one, placing a second plate on the table.
Or, “You’re late,” she’d whisper toward the front door.
But the door never opened.
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