Empty Chair

In this dramatic monologue from the play, “Empty Chair”, a widow confesses to a friend how she’s feeling at her late husband’s memorial.

MAGGIE: He always said he’d live forever. I’d laugh and tell him he was crazy, but deep down, I believed him. He was invincible. Larger than life. And now… now he’s just a name on a program, a picture on a wall. A memory that I’m supposed to hold onto like it’s enough to fill this endless space he left behind.

How do I move on from that? How do I live in a world where he’s not here? Because every time I sit in that chair, every time I walk through that door, I expect to see him. To hear his laugh, to feel his hand in mine.

But he’s gone. And the world keeps turning like nothing happened. The sun comes up, people go to work, kids play in the yard—and I just… I can’t. I can’t keep pretending I’m okay when every part of me is screaming that it’s not fair. He was supposed to be here. We were supposed to have more time.

I keep looking for him, in little things. The songs he used to sing off-key. The way he folded his shirts wrong. The smell of his cologne lingering in the closet. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to say goodbye to someone who was my everything. But I’ll try. For him, I’ll try. Because that’s what he’d want. He’d want me to keep going, even if it feels impossible right now.

I’ll carry him with me. Always. In every step, in every breath. And maybe, someday, I’ll find a way to live again. But for now, all I can do is miss him.

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