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

brass corners that caught the light.

My heart stopped.

I knew that box.

“That’s Robert’s,” I whispered. “That’s his father’s tackle box. The one his dad carved for him when he was twelve.”

“Yes,” Michael said quietly, pulling out the chair next to mine and sitting down heavily. He looked like he’d aged five years in the last five minutes.

“But that box continue reading …