For three years I set a plate at the table each night for my son Gideon — not because I expected him to walk through the door, but because stopping felt like admitting he wasn’t coming back. Gideon had enlisted at 19 with a promise of one tour, but that became three, and his calls and texts slowly faded until they stopped altogether.
Then one rainy day a young man in a soaked military uniform stood at my door. He was Staff Sergeant Theo, someone who had served with Gideon. He wasn’t there with official news, but he handed me a worn envelope — one of my letters that Gideon had kept. In his son’s handwriting were the words “READ EVERY NIGHT.” Theo told me Gideon had kept every letter.
When I asked where Gideon was, Theo said I needed to come with him. I ran to the car without hesitation.
On the drive, Theo explained that Gideon was alive but had suffered a traumatic brain injury in an explosion. The Army had lost contact details, so no one could notify me — until Theo found my letters.
At the hospital, Gideon lay weakened and confused, clutching another letter I had sent. I sat with him and began to read aloud. Slowly, after hearing my voice and my words, Gideon whispered, “Mom?” and reached for me. Recovery was slow, with good days and bad, but I stayed by his side, reading to him often.
When it was time to bring him home, I returned to my empty table, took away the single plate, and set two — ready for the son who had come back to me at last.