On Thanksgiving morning, I woke up to an empty house. My son, his wife, and their two kids flew to Hawaii without me. I didn’t cry. I called the movers. Five days later, I had 18 missed calls.
I woke up on Thanksgiving morning to the sound of nothing. Now, when you’ve lived as long as I have—seventy-three years on this earth—you learn that silence can mean many things. Sometimes it’s peaceful. Sometimes it’s lonely. But that morning, the silence felt different. It felt wrong.
I’ve always been an early riser. Even now, my body wakes me at 5:30 without an alarm, just like it has for decades. On Thanksgiving, I’m usually up even earlier, excited in that quiet way older folks get about traditions. I’d be thinking about the turkey I’d need to prep, the potatoes I’d peel while watching the parade, the way my grandchildren’s faces would light up when they smelled the pumpkin pie baking.
But that morning, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, something felt off. The house was too quiet. I sat up slowly, my knees protesting as they always do these days, and reached for my robe. The fabric was soft, worn from years of use, and it smelled faintly of the lavender sachets I keep in my drawers. I shuffled toward my bedroom door and paused, listening.
Nothing.
No sound of little feet running down the hallway. No cartoons playing on the television. No smell of coffee brewing, which was strange because my son Michael always made the first pot. He knew I liked my coffee strong and hot, ready when I came downstairs.
I opened my door and stepped into the hallway. The morning light was streaming through the windows at the end of the hall, soft and golden, the kind of light that usually makes a home feel warm. But as I stood there, the warmth didn’t reach me. The house felt hollow, like a shell.
“Michael,” I called out, my voice sounding small in the emptiness. “Amanda?”
No answer.
