Thanksgiving had always been noisy at the Miller house – kids running, cousins laughing, dishes clattering. But this year, the empty chair at the head of the table was impossible to ignore. Grandpa Joe had passed away in the spring, and nothing felt the same.
Halfway through dinner, little Ethan climbed into the empty chair, swinging his legs. “Grandpa told me to keep his seat warm,” he announced proudly. The room went silent.
His mother tried to hush him, but Ethan pulled out a folded napkin from his pocket. On it was a note in shaky handwriting: “Don’t let my chair get lonely. Keep it filled with stories.”
The family gasped – Joe had written it weeks before he died, tucking notes into places he knew they’d find when they needed him most.
That night, instead of sadness, the family filled the chair with laughter. They each shared a memory—his fishing jokes, his love of burnt toast, the way he danced badly at weddings.
The chair was no longer empty. It was overflowing with love, proof that some presences never leave, even when the person does.
