The Empty Chair and the Ones Who Stayed

For years, I kept showing up.

For birthdays. For breakdowns. For the quiet, messy in-between. I offered advice when asked. Stepped in when things got hard. Listened when no one else would. Rearranged my life—sometimes without being asked—because that’s what love looked like to me: it showed up.

But when I got sick—truly sick—something changed.

The room got quieter.

Some didn’t know what to say. Some didn’t want to say anything at all. And one by one, the chairs began to empty. Invitations went unanswered. Letters went unread. Stories I wrote with my whole heart received no reply.

And I had to face a reality I wasn’t prepared for:

It is possible to be loved… and still feel invisible.

The Ache of the Empty Chair

There are people I thought would be beside me now—my siblings, who I’ve supported in more ways than I can count. Emotionally. Financially. Practically. Who I’ve written to—directly, vulnerably—only to be met with silence. Long silences. Final silences.

One of my daughters, too. A daughter I love deeply. But our relationship has become a distant echo, marked by long absences, unreturned messages, and a pattern of retreat that’s gone on for decades. She came east recently to visit her mother, her best friend—not a word to me. I learned of it by accident. Again.

It’s the kind of pain that doesn’t come with a sharp edge—it’s dull, persistent. A slow ache. And it leaves you asking a brutal question: Did I matter to them beyond what I gave?

And Then—The Ones Who Stayed

Because some did.

Some still do.

They didn’t just stay—they leaned in.

To my partner, who’s held me in the quiet collapse. Who sees the man beyond the roles, beyond the strength. Who listens without fixing and loves without conditions.

To my youngest daughter, who chooses to walk beside me—not with denial, but with open eyes and an open heart. Who is giving me the gift of one more adventure, not because she must, but because she wants to.

To my best friend from college, who replies to every piece I write, who checks in, who tells me the truth and knows when to tell me something softer instead.

To the mother of my children, who checks in daily. Not out of duty, but out of enduring care. Who still bears witness to my life with grace, humor, and presence, even as we walk separate paths.

To my neighbor, who never just watches from across the fence. When he sees me tackling a project, he’s there—not just with tools, but with perspective. He tells me when I’m about to make a mistake, offers insights I didn’t ask for but always seem to need, and isn’t afraid to speak plainly. We’ve shared more than a few bottles of wine, but more importantly, we’ve shared long conversations—some grounded, some rambling, all real. He listens when I launch into my soliloquies about life, and he responds not with platitudes, but with thought. He’s my beta reader for many of my books, and he takes it seriously—offering not just edits, but reflections on what’s missing, what matters, and what still wants to be said. His presence has pulled me back from more than one emotional ledge.

To those who’ve taken time out of their own lives to be here—on the porch, around the table, in the quiet places where conversation and memory meet. Who listen. Who don’t fill the silence with solutions, but with presence.

To my nieces and nephews, who show up not with sympathy, but with tool belts, questions, and laughter—helping me finish the projects I no longer have the strength to complete. They remind me that love is not abstract. It’s hands-on.

To the fellow travelers on the cancer path—those who’ve reached out with stories, dark humor, and hard-earned wisdom. Who understand in ways others can’t. You’ve been lifelines when the days grew heavy.

To Myself

Yes—to me.

To the man who’s finally stopped waiting for those who won’t come.

To the man who now sees the difference between love that’s spoken… and love that stays.

To the man who still chooses to write—not because of who reads it, but because it’s how he stays awake.

I still notice the empty chairs.  I still feel the sting of silence.

But these days, I turn toward the ones who stayed.

And what I’ve learned is this:  Gratitude doesn’t mean forgetting who left.  It means finally seeing who never did.

A Final Invitation

If there’s someone in your life who stayed—who checked in, showed up, or quietly held space when things got hard—tell them.

Not someday. Today.

And if you’ve left a chair empty in someone else’s life, and their name still lingers in your mind—it’s not too late to return.

Love is not about grand gestures. 

It’s about presence. 

Real. Imperfect. Willing.

Before the light changes… show up.

—Thom