The Empty Chair (2008–2012)

By 2008, Josephine’s life had taken on a new rhythm, one shaped largely by her growing involvement in the Special Olympics club. Her days became busier, more structured, and less her own. While I was proud of the confidence she had found, I also noticed the subtle changes creeping in—how the visits we once took for granted now required permission, coordination, or were quietly dropped altogether.

We still planned dinners, still hoped for normality. But on the days Josephine didn’t come over as planned, her plate remained untouched. The food didn’t go to waste, though. Instead, it found its place out in the front garden, laid carefully on an old, rusted tin tray that had long since lost its shine. That tray became a fixture, sitting just under the hedge where it wouldn’t draw attention but could still be found.

In the daylight, the birds came first—sparrows, robins, sometimes the odd blackbird—all picking gently at the meal that never made it to the table inside. But it was in the deep quiet of the small hours that the true visitor came. The local fox, scruffy and cautious, would slip out from the underbrush and take what it needed. I found comfort in that. It felt like the food was still serving its purpose—still being shared, in a way.

It wasn’t the dinner I had planned, but it was still an act of giving. And on some level, it helped ease the sting of her absence.