When a Chair is Empty

Reflections on grief, hospitality, and the ripple effect of kindness

Yesterday, I sat at a table for two at The Old Mill Restaurant in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee—a place my mama used to love. I ordered the corn chowder, just like she would have, and looked across at the empty chair. She’s been gone for some time now, but the ache of her absence sometimes rushes in when I least expect it. It was one of those moments.

Earlier in the day, I had attended the funeral of a dear friend. A fellow fire service employee. My shift partner and brother from another mother. A man who once stood up for me when few others did. The weight of loss hung heavy. So I did something I hoped would lift me a little: I drove toward Dollywood.

This part of the Smoky Mountains holds layers of memory for me. My parents brought us here for family vacations when I was young. I’ve even imagined putting down roots in this region one day. And Dollywood? It’s always represented joy. Music. Sparkle. A bit of magic tied to a woman I’ve long admired.

So I parked, walked across the hot pavement, and held out my Gold Season Pass—only to be turned away. A system error, they said. A pass that showed valid in their own app was deemed invalid at the gate. I stayed calm. I gave them every opportunity to help. But no one did.

I took a selfie on the tram ride back to my car, the opposite of what I’d planned. Not smiling in front of roller coasters, but tear-streaked and disappointed, holding grief and rejection in my hands. And it got me thinking—what happened to those women at Customer Service?

What happened to their spark?

What turned their posture from “welcome” to “wall”?

What made them forget that every spoke in the wheel matters?

I work in hospitality too. I greet people at a winery in coastal Maine, pour wine for strangers, and help set the tone for someone’s vacation—or someone’s hard day. I don’t always know why they’ve come through our doors. Maybe they’re celebrating. Maybe they just buried someone. Maybe they needed the wine to soften a harsh moment in life. I don’t always know. But I always try to make sure they leave feeling better than when they arrived.

That’s the power of hospitality.

It’s not just pouring the wine. It’s the pouring of warmth. Of attention. Of kindness.

Yesterday made me realize how fragile that exchange really is. When someone shows up with a heart cracked open—be it from loss or longing or something quietly unspoken—and is met with indifference? That can undo them. Or at the very least, deepen the wound.

Tomorrow marks ten years since I woke up from successful brain tumor surgery. Ten years of this second life. Ten years of learning what matters, and what really, really doesn’t. If my mama were here, she’d be sitting next to me right now. She probably would’ve told off the Dollywood gatekeepers with a little more sass than I did, and she absolutely would’ve split that bowl of corn chowder with me.

But she’s not here.

So I sat at the table for two.

And I remembered what she taught me: how to welcome people, how to be kind, how to notice the lonely chair across from you.

This morning, I’ll stop by one of her other favorite spots—The Apple Barn—for something sweet before driving to Hazel Green, Alabama. I need the grounding that only family can give. My aunt’s farm is a gentle place, and I know being there will help soften the edges of this trip.

We all hold some responsibility for the experience we give to others. Whether it’s behind a counter, behind a bar, or across a table. One small moment of care—or dismissal—can echo long after the doors close.

Let’s choose to be the reason someone feels held. Even if only for a moment.