The next Thanksgiving, Margaret woke early. This time, the silence did not hurt. She prepared a small turkey, mashed potatoes, apple salad, and punch.

She invited Helen, Mr. Walter from 3B, and Rose, a widow who always said she wasn’t hungry but always took a second serving.

She set six places at the table. The last plate was for Arthur—not because she believed he would sit down, but because some loves deserve to keep a place without taking up space.

The meal was simple, warm, and full of laughter. No one gave her orders. No one asked how much she had spent. No one made her feel guilty for resting.

After dinner, Margaret stepped onto the balcony with her cup of tea. She thought about that other morning—the note, the empty house, her heart frozen solid.

She thought about the moving truck. The blue folder. The courtroom. Daniel standing in the rain, learning too late that a mother can close the door too.