She said it loud enough for the whole table to hear.
“No men allowed in my bed!”
Everyone laughed. It was bold. Clever. The kind of line an old woman says when she’s claimed full ownership of her solitude.
But that pillow. The one on the right side. It’s always there. Fluffed. Smoothed. Turned down like it’s waiting.
She doesn’t sleep on that side. Hasn’t in years.
So why does she still press her hand into it every night before crawling under the covers?
Why does she glance at it before turning out the lamp?
It’s not just habit—it’s hope, folded into fabric.
An unspoken welcome to someone who may never come, or may only exist in memory.
Sometimes, when the room is quiet and her hand lingers near that empty space, she smiles—just slightly, just enough.
And on the rare nights she wakes tangled in her sheets, lips parted from a half-forgotten dream, that pillow isn’t empty. Not really.
Because she may joke. She may deflect.
But a woman doesn’t keep space beside her unless she’s still waiting to be filled—whether by warmth, by weight, or by something only she understands.