When Michelle was little and scared of the dark, I’d leave the hall light on for her. And I’d tell her, “A light on means somebody’s still waiting up for you. It means somebody wants you to come home.”

I said that to her a hundred times when she was small. I forgot I ever said it. She didn’t.

The woman said Michelle told her, “You always leave it on so they can find their way back.”

My own words. Fourteen years later. Coming back to me from a stranger in a quilted vest.

I don’t really remember finishing my shopping. I think I left the cart somewhere. I sat in my car in the parking lot for a long time.

I kept thinking about all those nights. All those dinners she ate looking at an empty chair that she set out on purpose, for me, hoping.

While I sat at home being proud and stubborn and stupid. While I put unsent cards in a drawer instead of just driving the fifteen minutes.

She never stopped waiting. That’s the thing that won’t let go of me. She was a teenager when I told her my job was done, and she’s a grown woman now, and she still pulls out that chair.

I know Birch Street. I could find the house. The neighbor even told me which one, the one with the blue shutters.

I’ve driven past it twice now. Both times at night, so I could see if the light was on.

It was. Both times. That little porch light, just burning away, waiting for somebody who told her she wasn’t needed.

I haven’t knocked yet. I want you to know that. I’m not writing this to tell you I fixed it, because I haven’t.

I’ve got one of those cards in my coat pocket right now. The one that just says, “Love, Mama.” I’ve had it in there for three days.

I keep telling myself I’ll go tomorrow. That I’ll walk up those steps and knock and finally sit in that seat she’s been saving.

But then I think about what I’ll say. How do you explain fourteen years of silence to a person who set you a place at the table every single night anyway?

I don’t have the words for that. I’m a 62-year-old woman and I don’t have the words.

So for now I just drive by. And I look at the light. And I sit in my car on Birch Street with a card in my pocket, working up the nerve to do the one thing I should’ve done fourteen years ago.

The light’s still on. I keep telling myself that means it’s not too late. I just have to be brave enough to find out.