People laughed. Someone took my coat. Someone else took the pie and acted like I’d brought treasure. A little girl asked if I was Grandpa’s friend, and I said, “Not yet,” and she nodded like that made perfect sense.
The real Marcus showed up twenty minutes later, breathless and carrying a pan of sweet potatoes.
He stopped when he saw me in his seat.
I started to stand, ready to apologize, maybe leave.
Instead, he looked at his grandmother and said, “You invited another stray?”
She pointed a spoon at him.
“I fed you for thirty-four years,” she said. “Don’t act surprised.”
Everybody laughed again, including Marcus.
He put down the pan, walked over, and shook my hand.
“Any friend of hers is stuck with us now,” he said.
That should’ve been the end of it.
A nice story. A strange Thanksgiving. Something to smile about once a year.
But life doesn’t always stop where you think it will.
I went back in December with a bag of oranges because his grandmother—her name was Eleanor—mentioned she loved them. Marcus helped me carry in a new space heater when theirs gave out during a cold snap. His sister sent me home with leftovers on Christmas Eve. I fixed a leak under their sink in February.
By spring, I had their spare key.
The Empty Chair Stays Open
