Empty Chairs

The house was too still for a birthday.

Not silent—Daniel was playing on the rug, mumbling to himself as he pushed a toy truck in slow, lazy loops—but still, in that way grief settles into the walls when no one’s looking. The kind of quiet that feels like a space once filled and emptied.

The cake sat on the counter, half cut. JJ had decorated it herself—two layers, chocolate, with crooked blue frosting letters that read “DANIEL – 3.” There were balloons, too. A few floating, most slumped along the floor. The coffee had gone cold hours ago.

Bill sat at the kitchen table, elbows on the wood, paper plate in front of him with a smear of frosting and a single fork. He hadn’t touched it.

Across the room, JJ crouched next to their son, wiping chocolate off his chin with her JJ was still on the floor, smoothing Daniel’s hair back as he played.

“He really loved the cake,” she said, looking up at Bill.

He shrugged, eyes on his coffee. “Wish the others could’ve had a piece.”

JJ didn’t say anything, just nodded—once, slow.

Three years. That’s how long Daniel had been here. In some ways, it felt like three minutes. In others, three lifetimes. Back when he was born, the house had still been noisy. JJ’s sister, Emily, had flown in early and practically moved into their guest room. Frankie—Bill’s cousin, best friend, near brother—had barged into the hospital room with a balloon that said Happy Retirement. Said it was the only one left at the gas station.

JJ’s dad, Joe, wasn’t there. They hadn’t spoken in a while by then. Too many things left unsaid for too long. JJ said it didn’t matter. But when Daniel came, Bill had caught her looking out the window more than once, like maybe someone might still show up.

They were supposed to be here today. All of them. They were always supposed to be here.

Emily’s cancer came back not long after Daniel was born. She tried to play it down—kept saying she’d be fine, just tired, just busy—but JJ knew. They all did. She passed in the spring, before Daniel could even say her name right.

JJ had been mostly out of touch with her parents for years. Old arguments, old silence. She sent her dad a photo of Daniel before Christmas anyway—a small step, maybe. The envelope came back unopened a few weeks later. Joe had died in his sleep the week it arrived.

Her mom hadn’t come to the funeral. But this year, a package had shown up a few days before Daniel’s birthday. Inside: a toy truck, wrapped neatly, and a note in careful handwriting that said Happy Birthday, Daniel. Love, Grandma. It was the first thing they’d heard from her in a long time.

And Frankie… he was heading home from work, same route as always. A kid blew through a red light and hit him broadside. They said it was quick. That was supposed to help.

When Bill got the call, he didn’t cry. Just stood in front of the fridge with the door hanging open, hand on the milk, trying to remember what he’d come in for.

Now, he looked around the room and saw the spaces they used to fill. The corners they’d leaned in. The laughs that used to echo. He heard them still, sometimes. In memory. In the static of silence.

JJ came over and rested her hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She didn’t push. Just sat beside him, her arm brushing his, both of them watching their boy hum to himself as he rolled the truck into the couch leg.

Bill’s eyes drifted to JJ’s hand. It was resting on her belly, the curve just starting to show.

“You think they know?” he asked quietly.

She followed his gaze, her voice soft. “I think they’d be proud.”

He nodded. Didn’t say more. There wasn’t more to say.

Later, when the dishes were piled in the sink and Daniel had fallen asleep on the rug—his truck still tucked under one arm—the phone rang.

JJ dried her hands on a towel that had already gone damp and picked up from the wall.

“…Hi, Mom.”

Bill stayed seated. He could hear the change in her voice—soft, careful.

“Yeah… he had a good day. He liked the truck. That was really thoughtful.” A pause. “No, he’s asleep now. Just wore himself out.”

She turned slightly toward the window. “It was good to hear your voice.”

Another pause, longer this time.

Bill watched her, the curve of her shoulder, the small shift in her weight. When she finally hung up, she stood still for a second, the receiver still in her hand.

“She said maybe we could come out this summer,” she said without turning around.

Bill nodded. “We should go.”

JJ glanced over. “Billy… we’ve got work, the house, and a baby coming. It’s not exactly a quick trip.”

“I know.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You hate flying.”

“I’ll deal.”

She studied him—really studied him—for a moment. Not annoyed. Just tired. Tired in the way people are when they’ve carried too much for too long.

Then she nodded. “Alright.”

No speech. No unpacking it. Just a decision.

Bill stood and started gathering the plates, one hand steady on the back of the chair. His knees reminded him, like they always did now, that time didn’t ask permission before moving on.

JJ joined him, handed him a fork without saying a word.

The house was quiet, just the sound of Daniel’s breathing, soft and even from the rug.

They didn’t talk about the trip again that night.

But the suitcase came down from the closet the next morning.

And for a while, it just sat there—open, half-empty—like a reminder.