My son is pounding on my front door in Chicago right now. What he doesn’t know is that I’m 3,000 miles away, staring up at a sky burning with green and violet light.
It’s Christmas Eve. My phone buzzes. It’s a FaceTime from David.
I see his face on the screen. He looks stressed. Behind him, my dark front porch. He rings the doorbell again.
He won’t find anyone. Because the Linda he is looking for—the mother who waits by the phone, the one happy with crumbs of time—doesn’t live there anymore.
To understand why, you have to go back exactly one year.
Last Christmas, I wanted to surprise them. Since my husband Frank passed, the silence in my house was heavy. So, I spent two days cooking. Frank’s favorite pot roast, homemade rolls, and my pecan pie. I drove to David’s big new house unannounced, thinking mothers didn’t need invitations.
When David opened the door, I saw panic, not joy. “Mom?” he said. “What are you doing here?”
Behind him, I heard laughter and clinking glasses. Then his wife appeared, looking stunning in a black dress. She looked at my Tupperware containers like they were trash.
“Oh, Linda,” she said. “This is… awkward. We have David’s boss for dinner. The table is set perfectly for eight. We really weren’t expecting you.”
“We weren’t expecting you.”
I looked past them. The table was beautiful. Silver, crystal, linen. Every seat taken. There was no room for me.
“We can get a folding chair from the garage,” David offered, running a hand through his hair. “We can squeeze you in at the corner.”
A folding chair. While the “real” guests sat on velvet.
“No,” I lied, forcing a smile. “I just wanted to drop this off. The ladies from the Bridge club are waiting for me.”
I drove home, ate a turkey sandwich alone in the dark, and made a vow: Never again. Never again will I be the inconvenient guest in my own son’s life.
Months passed. While cleaning, I found Frank’s old travel magazine. A bookmarked page: “Fairbanks, Alaska – The Northern Lights.”
“When we retire, Linda,” Frank used to say. “We’ll go see the sky dance.”
We never went. Mortgage, college tuition, then Frank got sick. I looked at the magazine. Then I looked at my savings account. The money for my “old age.” The money for a nursing home.
But what if that day never comes? What if the future is just more sandwiches alone in the dark?
I booked the ticket the next morning. One way.
Back to the present. I press the green button to answer the call.
“Mom!” David yells. “Where are you?! We are outside! We… we set an extra place for you this year! We wanted to surprise you!”
He holds up a gift bag. My heart squeezes, but it doesn’t break. I love my son. But he is a grown man with a full life. My life shouldn’t be empty just because his is full.
“Hi, honey,” I say.
“Open the door!” he begs. “Are you sick?”
I flip the camera view. I don’t show him my old wallpaper. I show him the snow. Deep, pristine, sparkling. Then I aim the phone at the sky. Above me, in the frozen Alaska night, the Aurora Borealis is dancing. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
“Mom?” his voice drops to a whisper. “Where… where are you?”
“I’m where your Dad and I always wanted to go,” I say. “I’m done waiting for a folding chair, David. I found my own seat in the world.”
David goes silent. His wife leans in, covering her mouth when she sees the lights. “Are you alone? On Christmas?” he asks.
I look around. A nice couple from Texas and a group of students are nearby. We just shared some hot cocoa.
“No,” I say gently. “I’m not alone. I’m with myself. And I’m with your father.”
I see a tear on David’s cheek. Maybe he finally understands. Love doesn’t mean sitting in a corner until someone needs you.
“Merry Christmas, David,” I say. “Kiss the grandkids for me.” “Merry Christmas, Mom,” he whispers. “You look… happy.” “I am.”
I hang up. The cold here bites, but it makes you feel alive.
We spend half our lives teaching our children to walk so they can leave us. But we forget to teach ourselves how to walk again once they are gone.
Don’t wait for someone to add a chair to their table for you. The world is huge. The best seat at Christmas isn’t at a crowded table where you don’t fit—it’s anywhere your heart can start beating again.
Be the guest of honor in your own life. You’ve been waiting for yourself.
Merry Christmas to those brave enough to choose themselves.
—
PART 2 — THE CALL THAT FOLLOWED ME NORTH
The night I showed my son the Northern Lights, I thought the message would land like a soft apology on fresh snow.
Instead, it hit like a shovel on ice.
I slid my phone into my pocket and tipped my head back again.
The sky was still moving—green ribbons, violet bruises, a slow, holy dance that didn’t care who had forgotten to set a place at a table in Chicago.
A woman near me—puffy jacket, red nose, Texas drawl—offered me a paper cup.
Hot cocoa. Too sweet. Perfect.
