Chapter 19 - An Empty Dining Room in Ridgewood
While our home in Fair Lawn echoed with laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses, five miles away in Ridgewood, the grand colonial sat in absolute silence.
Outside, the twelve-foot inflatable snowman stood unlit on the snowy lawn, its motor unplugged.
Inside, the formal dining room was pristine, spotless, and freezing cold. The massive mahogany table was set for one.
Susette sat alone at the head of her long, dark table under the glowing crystal chandelier. A single fine bone china plate sat in front of her, holding a slice of cold, store-bought roasted chicken and a small spoonful of boxed stuffing.
There were no voices filling the room. There was no sound of children playing down in the basement. There was no clinking of wine glasses, no bad jokes from Uncle Pete, no sound of Garrett carving the turkey.
She picked up her silver fork, raised a single bite of cold chicken to her mouth, and stared out the large glass window at the snow falling quietly over her empty backyard.
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She had spent six years designing a dining room where only "people who actually belonged" were allowed to sit.
And in the end, she was the only person left inside it.
