The next year, she did the same.

Eventually, the extra plate became a private ritual.

But the letter contained something Daniel had not expected.

Your father thinks I set the place for you. Emily thinks so too. Perhaps, at first, I did.

But a few years ago, I realized that the person I missed most was not the grown man who had stopped visiting. It was the boy who used to sit at that table and tell me everything.

I missed the boy who cried when his bicycle was stolen, who wanted to know whether birds got cold in winter, who brought me dandelions because he thought they were flowers worth keeping.

I know that boy has grown up. I know he has a wife and daughter, responsibilities, opinions, and a life I have not been part of. I don’t expect him to become a child again.

I only wish he knew that he never had to stop being my son.

Daniel folded the letter, then unfolded it.

He read the final paragraph twice.

If you come home for Christmas, I will probably make too much food and ask too many questions. I may say something foolish about your hair or your coat. You may find me irritating. That has always been one of my talents.

But I will be glad to see you.

And if you do not come, I will set the table anyway.

Love, Mum.

Daniel remained in the kitchen until well after midnight.

At some point, Thomas came downstairs for water and found him sitting beneath the yellow light, the letter open in front of him.

His father did not ask what it said.

He pulled out a chair.

For several minutes, they sat together.

Then Daniel asked, “Did she really keep setting my place?”

Thomas looked at the table.

“Every year.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did, once.”

Daniel frowned.

“When?”

“Christmas of 2017. On the telephone. I told you your mother had laid the table for four.”

Daniel remembered the conversation only vaguely. He had been at an office party, standing in a hallway with a drink in his hand. His father had called to wish him a merry Christmas.

“I thought you were trying to make me feel guilty.”

Thomas rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table.

“Perhaps I was.”

Daniel looked at him.

“I was angry too, you know,” Thomas said. “Not about the money. About the way you treated her.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

His father spoke quietly.

“She defended you to everyone. When people asked why you never visited, she told them you were busy. When they asked whether you had paid us back, she said it was none of their business. When your daughter was born, she bought a little dress and kept it here for months because she hoped you’d bring her.”