Every Sunday, I cook a big pot of spaghetti. Habit from when my kids were small. Thing is, they’re grown now. Moved away. But the pot? I still make it. Too much food for one person.
For months, I ate in silence. Half went in the fridge. The rest, the trash. Then one Sunday, I saw my neighbor’s teenage boy sitting on the curb, head in hands. I called out, “You eaten?” He shook his head. I handed him a plate.
He came back the next week. Then his sister. Then two more kids from down the block. Before I knew it, my Sunday table was full again. Kids, neighbors, even the delivery driver once. I didn’t invite them formally. They just showed up.
Now, every Sunday at 6, my door stays open. The spaghetti’s ready. Nobody knocks, they just come. Some bring bread, some bring nothing. Doesn’t matter. We eat. We laugh. We’re family, even if we don’t share blood.
That empty table that used to ache? It’s alive again. And so am I.
— Linda Harper, Cleveland, OH