Chapter 101 Empty House
Catherine Thorne set the table for two.
Two plates. Two wine glasses. Two sets of silverware.
The dining room felt cavernous. Twenty years ago, they bought a table meant for twelve—family dinners, holidays, parties. All of it.
Now it was just her and Richard, each at one end, that polished mahogany expanse stretching between them like open water.
She heard him in the study. The TV was blaring. Lately, he practically lived in there.
Not that he was doing anything useful—just drowning out the quiet, or maybe drowning her out.
"Richard. Dinner."
"Five minutes."
"It's getting cold."
"Five minutes."
Sure, she thought. Always five minutes.
She sat down and looked at her plate. Chicken, roasted vegetables, salad.
The chef prepped it all before disappearing for the weekend. Perfectly arranged. Not a bit of warmth to it.
Richard showed up in the doorway still wearing his suit.
Saturday, and he couldn't shake the uniform.
He wore those suits like armor, as if admitting he didn't need them meant he meant even less.
He served himself without a word. No comment on the food. No thank you. They ate in silence for a while.
"Did you see the quarterly report?" Richard finally asked.
"No."
"Singapore deal’s stalling. Morrison pushed back. Stock dropped two points."
"I'm sure the board will handle it," she said, not looking up.
"The board. Like they're capable."
Catherine cut into her chicken. "They’ve managed fine without you for six months."
"Barely," he shot back.
"The company is fine, Richard."
"Is it? Because from where I’m sitting—"
"You’re not sitting anywhere. You're retiring. Remember?"
His jaw set. "I remember."
Silence spread out again. The old clock in the hallway ticked. Silverware scraped against porcelain.
Catherine picked up her phone. Messages from book club, garden club, nothing she cared about.
Out of habit, she opened Instagram. Diane’s vacation. Susan’s grandkids. Margaret’s shiny new kitchen.
And then Victoria’s post.
Catherine stopped breathing for a second. Her daughter—her own, who hadn’t spoken to her in seven months.
The photo: a dining table, candles, adults talking, and in front, two kids coloring.
Caption: Family dinner. Grateful for new beginnings.
She zoomed in; the girl looked seven or eight, dark hair, Victoria’s eyes.
Lily, her granddaughter. The one she’d never met.
The boy was younger. Four at most. Playing with dinosaurs. Elena’s son—her other grandchild.
She stared at the photo, at the family Victoria had managed to build without them.
"What are you looking at?” Richard asked.
"Nothing."
"You’ve stared at your phone for three minutes."
She set it down. "Victoria posted a photo," she said.
He stiffened, fork suspended. "And?"
"She had dinner with Alexander and Elena. With the kids."
"I don’t want to hear about it."
"Lily was there. Our granddaughter."
He started to say something, stopped. "We don’t know that girl."
"Exactly. We don’t know her. Because we drove Victoria away."
"We didn’t drive anyone anywhere. She left on her own."
"You gave her an ultimatum, Richard."
"I gave her a choice. Family or Alexander’s drama. She picked wrong."
Catherine shoved the phone at him. "Does this look like manipulation to you?" she said.
He glanced at it, refused to look again. "I don’t care what it looks like."
"That’s our granddaughter, Richard. Our grandson. Having dinner together. They’re a family without us because we made sure we weren’t part of it."
"They excluded us—"
"We excluded them! You forced Victoria to choose. You blackballed Alexander. Refused Elena. We did this. Now they’re moving on, and we’re left behind in this empty house."
"If they wanted us there, they’d reach out."
"Why would they? We made it clear they couldn’t have us unless they played by your rules."
He dropped his fork. "We aren’t doing this again."
"We need to, Richard. Seven months of this. Seven months of missed birthdays, missed everything." Catherine looked down at the photo again, the knot tightening in her chest. "We don’t even know our grandchildren."
"They’ll come around. Wait and see."
She laughed, sharp and angry. "Come around to what? Admitting we were right? Look at them, Richard. They don’t need us."
He pushed his chair back and left the dining room, retreating to his bunker.
She sat alone, untouched dinner growing cold. She heard the study door close, the volume on the TV ratcheted up—blocking her out again.
She cleared the table, packed up the leftovers.
The chef would get to them on Monday, but she needed something to do, anything to keep from thinking.
She poured herself another glass of wine and leaned on the counter.
The house was too quiet—had always been, but she’d kept herself busy. Activities, committees, meetings. Lately, it all felt like noise.
Her phone buzzed. Diane, asking about dinner next week. Sure, she typed.
Wednesday? Seven o’clock. She’d fill her days with other people’s company, chase away the emptiness for an hour or two.
The kitchen was spotless. Every surface gleamed, every drawer organized. Twenty-eight years in this house.
Two kids, a thousand celebrations. But now? Just her and Richard, eating in separate silences.
She took a deep breath and walked to the study, knocking on the door.
"I’m watching something," Richard called.
"I want to talk," she said.
"Not now, Catherine."
She knocked again, a little harder. "Richard. Please."
A pause. The door opened. He looked older than she remembered—hair thinner, face more drawn.
"What is it?"
"I want to reach out to Victoria," she said.
"No."
"I’m not asking. I’m telling you.”
"Catherine—"
"She’s our daughter. She’s building a family. And we’re missing all of it."
"Because she chose—"
"Stop. She didn’t choose. You forced her." Catherine’s voice shook. "You wanted control over everything—who the kids loved, where they worked, how they lived. And when you couldn’t control them, you cut them off."
He reddened. "I built this family. I gave them everything—"
"They wanted something different, that’s all. It’s not betrayal. Just life."
He dug in, knuckles white. “They betrayed—”
"No. Alexander fell in love, and you hated it. Victoria tried to keep the peace, but you wouldn’t let her. We failed them, Richard. Not the other way around."
He didn’t say a word.
"I’m tired," Catherine whispered. "Tired of this emptiness. Tired of pretending we were right."
"They humiliated me—"
"No one cares, Richard. Only you." She steadied her voice. "I’m calling Victoria. I want to meet Lily and Leo. I want to say sorry, no matter what it costs."
"If I say no?"
"I’m doing it anyway." She waited, ready for another fight.
He finally gave a little. "Do what you want. You always do."
Back in the living room, Catherine sat on the couch with her phone. Victoria’s number glared up at her. What do you even start with? Sorry we ruined everything? Sorry we put our pride first?
She shook her head and started typing.
Victoria, I saw your photo. Lily is beautiful. I know I have no right to ask, but I would love to meet her. And Leo. And talk to you and Alexander. I’m sorry. For everything. Mom.
She read it twice, edited, read it again. Finally, she just sent it.
She stared at the phone. The silence around her felt like the whole house was holding its breath.
Five minutes. Ten. Nothing.
She walked to the window, looking out across their perfect, empty property. Three acres, all of it immaculate and unused.
Then the phone buzzed.
I need to think about this. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Not a yes. Not a no. But something.
She typed back: Thank you. I’ll wait for your call. I love you.
No reply. She didn’t expect one.
She could hear the news through the closed door of Richard’s study.
He’d pretend he didn’t care, but she knew better.
He cared more than he wanted to admit—it just hurt too much to say so.
Maybe this was all they’d ever have. Sitting at opposite ends of the table, opposite sides of a bed. Together but alone.
Or maybe—just maybe—Victoria would call. Maybe they’d get another chance.
Catherine didn’t know. Couldn’t force any of it. She could only wait.
She finished her wine, switched off the lights, and went upstairs.
Richard was in bed already, locked away behind his reading glasses and tablet.
She changed in silence, slid under the covers.
"I texted Victoria," she said.
He didn’t answer.
"She’s calling tomorrow."
Nothing.
"Richard."
"I heard you."
"And?"
"And nothing. Go ahead."
“This affects you too.”
“Apparently not. You didn’t want my opinion.”
"Your opinion was no. I decided to ignore it."
He put down the tablet. “Thirty-three years of marriage and now you ignore me?”
“You’ve been ignoring me for seven months. Since they left.”
He stared at the ceiling. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Richard. We lost our children. Doesn’t that matter?”
His voice was raw. "Of course it matters. But saying it out loud makes it real."
"It is real. We did this, Richard. Both of us. The only thing we can control now is whether we try to fix it."
"You can't fix betrayal."
“They didn’t betray us. We betrayed them. We let pride stomp all over everything good."
He rolled away from her, turned off the light. "Good night, Catherine."
She stared at his back, the gulf between them stretching wider than the dinner table.
"Good night."
She lay in the dark, staring at her silent phone. Tomorrow it might ring. Victoria might call. Maybe. Possibly.
It wasn’t enough, not yet. But it was more than she’d had in months.
She closed her eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come.
She waited. For tomorrow. For Victoria’s call. For anything.
The house was quiet around her. Cold.
But maybe—one day—she’d hear laughter again.
Grandchildren running through the halls, voices echoing off the walls.
Maybe.
If Victoria called.
If Richard softened, even a little.
If they could put down their pride for once.
Big ifs.
But Catherine held onto them. Held on tight. Because the alternative—this silence, this hollow ache—wasn’t living at all.
She’d wait as long as it took.
And when Victoria called—if she called—Catherine would be ready. Ready to listen. Ready to apologize. Ready to ask, to beg if she had to.
Some things matter more than pride.
Family, for one.
After all this time, she finally saw it.
She just hoped it wasn’t too late.