There Was an Extra Place at the Table for My Late Husband—That’s When My Son Went Pale

as the “dad seat”—the place of honor, the spot where Robert had always sat at our own farmhouse table forty miles outside Millbrook. The chair that our kids had never fought over even as teenagers because some family positions were sacred, unchanging, permanent.

Except Robert had been dead for two years.

So why was there a place set for him?

My hands continue reading …