The empty room — when the youngest leaves for college

At the first dinner after her youngest left, she still washed rice for four. Her hands just did it. Only when the table was set did she see it: four bowls, two empty chairs, and two people left to eat.

Half the pot was left over. She didn't say anything; she kept looking at her daughter's chair. Her husband didn't say anything either. He just filled his bowl again, and again, until the pot was scraped clean. She knew he wasn't hungry. He ate so she wouldn't have to look at the leftovers. In that house, she wasn't the only one missing their child.

For the first few days, she stopped every time she passed the room. The teddy bear still sat by the stack of books; the poster was still on the wall. She thought about turning it into a storage room. He waved the idea off: leave it, she'll need a place when she's home on weekends. They both knew the weekends would get fewer. The room wasn't being kept for their daughter. It was being kept so the two of them could get used to it slowly.

Her daughter called on video, showing off her roommates and her dorm lunch tray. She smiled the whole call, and the smile was real. After hanging up she sighed, and the sigh was real too. She wiped down a table that was already clean. Then she picked the phone back up and called again, just to say the one thing she'd been holding back.

You could go this far because I raised you. Now it's my turn to learn to live for me.

Is your old room still the way you left it? The last time you called home, how much did they smile?