The Empty Seats
My name is Nancy Austin. I am thirty-five years old, and I have spent most of my adult life doing the math. Not because I am especially good with numbers, but because numbers were the only honest language my family ever used around me, even when they were trying to hide something.
Here is a number to start with: three and a half hours. That is how long my parents flew, business class, from Cedar Rapids to Phoenix in October 2025 to attend my sister Madison’s housewarming party for a vacation condo she and her husband had just purchased in Scottsdale. They stayed ten days.
They documented the whole trip on Facebook, forty-seven photographs across ten days of desert sunsets and patio furniture and proud-mom captions. Here is another number: thirty minutes. That is how long the drive from Cedar Rapids to Iowa City takes on a Saturday afternoon, with no traffic, on flat Midwestern highway.
My wedding was in Iowa City on November 22nd, 2025. My parents did not come. My mother’s explanation, delivered by phone four days before the ceremony, was that the drive was too hard on her sciatica.
I had stopped being surprised by my family a long time before that phone call. But I had not yet stopped being hurt by them, and those are two different things that people sometimes confuse. To understand any of this properly, you have to go back to the beginning, which is the day Madison came home from the hospital.
I was five years old. I remember my mother holding her and looking at her with an expression I had never seen directed at me, something lit from within, something that said here is the thing I was looking for. I remember thinking that if I was very quiet and very good, she might eventually look at me that way too.
I spent the next thirty years being quiet and being good. She never did. The first Christmas I remember clearly, I was six.
I had asked for a dollhouse, the kind with the small furniture and the working lights, and Christmas morning it was there under the tree, pink roof and green shutters, exactly as I had imagined it. My mother carried it to Madison’s nursery. Madison was one year old.
She could not walk yet. My mother turned to me with a practical expression and told me I was such a big girl and that Santa had a budget and babies needed more. I received a twelve-dollar coloring book.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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