A widower speaks every day to the empty seat where his wife used to sit.

One damp November evening, the widower’s voice was clearer and sharper than usual, edged with a fresh wave of despair. He spoke of the son’s impending visit for Thanksgiving and his fear of facing him with the secret still locked away. “He’s coming home, darling,” the widower confided to the empty chair. “And he’s bringing the grandchildren. They look so much like you, and every time I see their eyes, I see that night. I see the mistake. But I can’t undo your promise.”

Then, his voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, yet the acoustic tunnel of the night air carried it directly to the Listener’s window. The widower leaned toward the empty seat, his confession sharp and raw. He spoke of his wife’s secret trip in 1982, not to visit a sick relative as they had told everyone, but to quietly meet a former, distant acquaintance. He revealed that their son was not, genetically, his own. He was the product of a brief, complex relationship from his wife’s past, a relationship that predated their own serious commitment, but which had resulted in an unexpected complication.

Continue reading…