I canceled dinner with my dad because work felt more important. An hour later I drove back for my keys and saw him through the window cutting one steak in half, setting a place for me, and talking to the empty chair where Mom used to sit. What happened next changed how I understood love, time, and the quiet ways a parent keeps a family alive.
Part 1
The text arrived at 4:10 on a Thursday that already felt too long. My phone vibrated against the edge of my desk while I was still staring at a spreadsheet that refused to balance. Dad: I bought the good steaks. See you at 6!
I stared at the message longer than I needed to. The good steaks. He always said it that way, as if the grocery store carried two grades and he had chosen the better one just for me. I could already picture him at the butcher counter, asking questions about marbling and thickness the way other people talk about weather.
My thumbs moved before my heart did. Too busy for dinner tonight. Work is crazy.
The reply came almost immediately. A single thumbs-up emoji. No guilt. No follow-up question. Just that quiet acceptance that had become his signature since Mom left us.
I told myself I would make it up to him on the weekend. I told myself the presentation tomorrow morning mattered more than one meal. I told myself a lot of things that afternoon while the office lights stayed on and the clock kept moving.
At 5:15 I reached for my bag and felt the empty space where my keys should have been. The memory surfaced slowly: I had set them on the small table by Dad’s front door when I stopped by two days earlier to drop off his blood-pressure medication. I had meant to grab them on the way out. I had not.
The drive to his house took eighteen minutes. The sky was already softening into that blue-gray that comes just before true evening. His porch light was on. The living-room curtains were open. I parked across the street the way I sometimes did when I only planned to run in and out, and I walked up the path without announcing myself.
I did not knock. Something about the stillness of the house made me pause at the kitchen window instead. The glass was slightly fogged from the cooking. I leaned closer.
The table was set for two.
Not the hurried way people set a table when they expect company. Placemats aligned. Silverware placed with care. Two water glasses filled. A small dish of butter. One thick steak sat on a cutting board in front of him. He had already cooked it. The smell of garlic and rosemary reached me even through the closed window.
He picked up the knife and fork. With the same careful motions he used when he used to carve the holiday turkey, he sliced the steak straight down the middle. He lifted one half and set it on the empty plate across from him. Then he sat back, looked at the vacant chair, and smiled the way a man smiles when he is speaking to someone he loves who is no longer there.
I could not hear the words at first. The glass muted everything. But his lips moved, and the shape of the sentences was familiar. I watched him nod as if listening to an answer. He gestured once toward the plate he had just filled. Then he looked toward the window, almost as if he sensed me, but his eyes stayed on the chair.
My throat closed. I stood there longer than I should have, one hand against the siding, the other pressed to my mouth. The porch light made a soft circle on the grass behind me. Inside, my father continued his quiet conversation with the place where my mother used to sit.
I wiped my face with the sleeve of my jacket. I walked around to the front door. I turned the handle without knocking and stepped into the warm light of the kitchen.
He looked up. For half a second surprise crossed his face. Then the smile arrived, the real one, the one that reached his eyes and made the lines around them deepen.
“I changed my mind, Dad,” I said. My voice came out thinner than I wanted. “I’m hungry.”
He stood. The chair legs scraped softly against the floor. He did not ask why I had come after all. He simply pulled out the chair opposite him, the one that had been empty a moment before, and waited until I sat.
The half steak was still warm. He pushed the plate toward me and reached for the salt as if nothing unusual had happened. As if the evening had always been meant to go this way.
I picked up my fork. Outside the window the last of the daylight was leaving. Inside the kitchen my father watched me take the first bite, and the quiet between us felt both heavy and strangely gentle.
I did not tell him what I had seen. Not yet. Some truths need a little time before they can be spoken aloud.
Part 2
We ate in near silence for the first few minutes. The steak was perfect, the way he always cooked it, seared hard on the outside and still pink in the center. He had made the same green beans Mom used to make, the ones with a little lemon and too much butter. A small bowl of leftover mashed potatoes sat between us. He had reheated them carefully so the edges would not dry out.
“Work still crazy?” he asked after a while.
“Always.”
He nodded as if that answered something important. “Your mother used to say the same thing about her nursing shifts. She’d come home exhausted and still ask me about my day before she took off her shoes.”
I kept my eyes on my plate. The mention of her still did that sometimes, made the air feel thinner.
“She’d be proud of you,” he added. “The way you keep going.”
I set my fork down. “Dad.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to say that every time.”
He looked at me over the rim of his water glass. The kitchen light caught the silver at his temples. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
We finished the meal. He refused my help with the dishes. I stood at the counter anyway and dried the plates the way I had when I was twelve. The familiar rhythm of it settled something in my chest that had been restless all afternoon.
When the last plate was put away he asked if I wanted coffee. I said yes even though I rarely drank coffee after six. We sat at the table again with two mugs. The empty chair stayed empty. Neither of us moved it.
“I saw the table set for two when I drove up,” I said finally. The words came out carefully, as if they might break something.
He did not pretend not to understand. “Habit,” he said. “Some habits are hard to break.”
“You cut the steak in half.”
A small, almost embarrassed smile touched his mouth. “Seemed wasteful to cook two when I thought you’d be busy. But the plate still needed something on it.”
I stared at the grain of the wooden table. “I watched you through the window for a minute. You were talking.”
He was quiet long enough that I thought he might change the subject. Instead he nodded once. “I still talk to her. Not every night. Just the nights that feel too quiet. I tell her how you’re doing. How the garden is coming along. Small things.”
“Does it help?”
“Some days.” He wrapped both hands around his mug. “Other days it just reminds me she’s not answering.”
I reached across the table and covered one of his hands with mine. His skin felt thinner than I remembered, the veins more visible. I had been so busy measuring my own exhaustion that I had stopped noticing his.
“I’m sorry I canceled,” I said.
“You don’t have to apologize for working hard.”
“I do, though. Not for the work. For how easy it was to say no.”
He turned his hand over and held mine properly. “You’re here now. That’s enough for tonight.”
We sat like that until the coffee cooled. When I finally stood to leave he walked me to the door and waited on the porch until my car started. The porch light stayed on until I reached the corner.
On the drive home the city lights blurred. I kept seeing the half steak on the empty plate and the way he had looked at the chair as if someone were still sitting there listening.
I did not sleep well. Every time I closed my eyes I heard his voice saying we were fortunate to have me, and I wondered how long he had been saying those words to an empty room.
Part 3
The next morning I called in late to the office. I told my manager I had a family matter. It was the first time in three years I had used those words without them being about a funeral or a hospital.
I drove back to Dad’s house with two bags of groceries and a plan that felt both small and enormous. He was in the backyard pruning the rose bushes Mom had planted the year before I left for college. He looked up when he heard the gate and shaded his eyes with one gloved hand.
“Didn’t expect you two days in a row,” he said.
“I brought breakfast ingredients. And I thought we could go through some of the boxes in the garage if you’re up for it.”
He studied my face for a moment, then nodded. “Coffee’s still hot.”
We worked through the morning in comfortable stretches of silence broken by ordinary questions. Which box held the old Christmas ornaments. Whether the photo albums from the lake house were in the blue plastic bin or the cardboard one with the water stain. I found a stack of letters Mom had written to him during the year he was stationed overseas, the envelopes soft with age. He held them for a long time without opening any.
“She used to write every Sunday,” he said. “Even when there was nothing new to say. She’d describe the weather and what you had for dinner and how the neighbor’s dog kept digging under the fence.”
I sat on an overturned bucket and waited.
“After she died I tried reading them again. Got through three before I had to stop. Felt like she was still in the next room.”
“Do you want to try again? Together?”
He considered it, then shook his head. “Not today. But maybe keep them where I can reach them.”
We carried the letters inside and set the box on the shelf in the hallway closet, the one that used to hold her winter coats. The space still smelled faintly of the lavender sachets she had insisted on.
That afternoon I stayed for a late lunch. He made grilled cheese the way he always had, with too much butter and the edges almost burned. We ate on the back steps watching a pair of cardinals argue over the bird feeder.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said. “About coming over more often. Not just when I forget my keys.”
He wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “I’d like that. But don’t rearrange your life for me. You’ve got your own things.”
“That’s the problem. I’ve been treating my own things like they’re the only things that matter.”
He did not answer right away. A lawn mower started somewhere down the block. The cardinals flew off.
“Your mother used to worry you’d do that,” he said at last. “Work yourself so hard you’d forget to look up. She made me promise I’d remind you if it ever happened.”
“Is that what last night was? A reminder?”
“Last night was me missing the sound of someone else in the house. The reminder was just a side effect.”
I leaned my shoulder against his. The sun was warm on our faces. For the first time in a long while the quiet did not feel like something that needed to be filled.
When I left that evening he walked me to the car again. Before I closed the door he said, “Same time next Thursday? I’ll buy the good steaks again.”
I smiled. “I’ll be here. And I’ll bring dessert.”
Driving home I felt the first small shift, the sense that something that had been sliding sideways for years had found a little traction. I did not know yet how much more would be asked of me, or how many old truths were waiting in the rooms of that house. I only knew that the empty chair no longer felt like a closed subject.
Part 4
Thursday became a quiet ritual. Some weeks I arrived early enough to help with the cooking. Other weeks I walked in just as he was setting the second plate on the table. We talked about ordinary things at first: the neighbor’s new fence, the way the maple in the front yard was turning early, a funny email from my cousin in Ohio. Slowly the conversations lengthened into the spaces where harder subjects lived.
One evening in late September he mentioned that he had started forgetting small things. The name of the pharmacist. Where he had put the spare house key. He said it lightly, the way people do when they are testing whether the listener will make it larger than it is.
“It’s nothing dramatic,” he added. “Just annoying.”
I kept my voice steady. “Have you told Dr. Patel?”
“Not yet. Didn’t want to waste a visit on something that might pass.”
“Dad. Promise me you’ll make the appointment.”
He studied the ice cubes in his glass. “All right. Next week.”
I stayed later that night. After the dishes I asked if we could look at the photo albums we had found in the garage. We sat on the couch with the heavy books across our laps. Page after page of Mom smiling at birthday cakes, at the edge of a lake, at me in various awkward stages of childhood. In almost every picture her hand was somewhere near his—on his shoulder, holding his arm, resting against his back.
“She hated having her picture taken,” he said. “But she never said no if I asked.”
I turned a page and found a photograph I did not remember. Mom and Dad standing in the kitchen of this same house, much younger, the table set for three even though I must have been only a baby in a high chair just out of frame. The light was the same warm yellow it still was.
“I miss her cooking,” I said.
“I miss the way she hummed while she cooked. Off-key. Drove me crazy for thirty-eight years. Now I’d give anything to hear it again.”
We closed the album when the light outside had fully gone. He walked me to the door as always. On the porch he paused.
“I’m glad you’re coming around more,” he said. “The house feels less like it’s waiting for something.”
I hugged him longer than usual. Over his shoulder I could see the kitchen table through the window, already cleared, the two chairs pushed in side by side.
That night I sat in my apartment and looked at my calendar. Meetings stacked on meetings. Deadlines that had once felt non-negotiable now looked like choices I had simply stopped questioning. I opened a new note on my phone and typed a single line: Make room.
I did not know yet what the room would cost, only that the cost of not making it had already begun to show in the lines around my father’s eyes.
Part 5
The doctor’s appointment came and went. Mild cognitive changes, they said. Nothing that required immediate intervention beyond monitoring and a few lifestyle adjustments. Dad relayed the news with the same calm he used for weather reports. I heard the careful wording and understood he was protecting me from worry the same way he had once protected me from the harder truths of Mom’s final months.
I started staying overnight on Fridays. The guest room still had the quilt Mom had made, the one with the slightly uneven stitches she always apologized for. I slept under it and woke to the smell of coffee already brewing. On those mornings we took slow walks around the block. He pointed out houses where people we used to know had lived. Some of the names I remembered. Many I did not.
One Saturday in October he asked if I would help him go through Mom’s side of the closet. The clothes had stayed exactly as she left them for almost two years. He had not been able to open the door without feeling like he was trespassing.
We worked in silence at first, folding sweaters, setting aside the few pieces that still held her shape. At the back of the closet, behind a row of winter coats, we found a small wooden box I had never seen. Inside were letters addressed to me, written in her careful handwriting, dated in the months after her diagnosis but before she told any of us how serious it had become.
Dad sat on the edge of the bed while I read the first one. Her voice came through the ink so clearly it made my chest ache. She wrote about ordinary days. About watching me leave for work and hoping I would remember to eat lunch. About the way Dad still reached for her hand in his sleep. She wrote that she was not afraid of dying so much as she was afraid of leaving us to figure out the quiet by ourselves.
I read three letters before I had to stop. Dad did not ask to see them. He simply waited until I closed the box and then said, “She always did plan ahead.”
That evening we sat on the back steps again. The air had turned sharp with the first real promise of winter. I told him I wanted to reduce my hours at the office. Not quit. Just step back enough that Thursdays and Fridays could belong to this house without me arriving already half exhausted.
He was quiet for a long time. “Your mother would say you’re finally listening.”
“What do you say?”
“I say the good steaks taste better when you’re actually hungry for them.”
We watched the sky darken. Somewhere down the street a child laughed. The sound reached us and then faded. I realized I had not heard my father laugh like that in a very long time, and I made a quiet promise to myself that I would find ways to bring that sound back.
The letters stayed on the nightstand in the guest room. I read one every Friday night before sleep. Each one felt like a conversation I had been waiting years to have.
Part 6
Winter arrived early that year. The first real snow fell on a Tuesday, and by Thursday the roads were quiet enough that the drive to Dad’s felt almost ceremonial. He had the table set when I arrived. Two steaks this time, both the good ones. A bottle of the red wine Mom used to like sat open on the counter, breathing.
“Special occasion?” I asked.
“No occasion. Just decided the good things shouldn’t wait for reasons.”
We ate slowly. Conversation wandered from the snow to a documentary he had watched about migratory birds to the fact that my cousin in Ohio was expecting a second child. When the plates were empty he cleared his throat the way he did when something important was coming.
“I’ve been thinking about the house,” he said. “About what happens to it eventually.”
I kept my expression neutral. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Not planning to. But the thinking still happens. Your mother and I always said the house should stay in the family if one of us wanted it. I need to know if that’s something you’d ever consider.”
The question landed heavier than I expected. My apartment was small and temporary by design. I had told myself for years that I preferred it that way. Now the idea of these rooms becoming permanent felt both terrifying and strangely right.
“I don’t know yet,” I said honestly. “But I want to keep coming here long enough to find out.”
He nodded as if that answer was enough for now. Later, while we washed dishes side by side, he told me about the year Mom had insisted they plant the maple tree in the front yard even though the nursery said it was the wrong season. “She said some things are worth planting even when the timing looks wrong.”
I looked at him. “Is that what we’re doing? Planting something?”
“Maybe. Or maybe we’re just remembering how to water what was already there.”
That night I slept in the guest room again. The wooden box of letters sat on the nightstand. I did not open it. Instead I lay in the dark and listened to the old house settle around me, the familiar creaks and sighs that had once been the background of my childhood. For the first time in years the sounds did not make me restless. They made me feel located.
In the morning I found Dad already in the kitchen making pancakes the way Mom used to, with blueberries and a little too much vanilla. He looked over his shoulder when I appeared and smiled the same smile I had seen through the window the night everything began to change.
“Sit,” he said. “They’re almost ready.”
I sat. The second chair no longer felt empty. It simply felt like it was waiting for whoever needed it next.
Part 7
By February the Thursday dinners had become the fixed point of my week. Work still demanded most of my daylight hours, but the edges of my life had softened. I left the office earlier. I stopped answering emails after seven. Colleagues noticed. Some asked if everything was all right. I told them yes, and for the first time in a long while I meant it.
One Thursday Dad was not in the kitchen when I arrived. The porch light was on, the door unlocked the way it always was when he expected me. I found him in the living room sitting in the recliner with a photo album open across his knees. The television was off. The only light came from the lamp beside him.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
He looked up as if he had forgotten the time. “Just looking at old pictures. Lost track.”
I sat on the arm of the chair and looked with him. The album was from the year I graduated high school. Mom in a blue dress she had bought specially. Dad trying not to cry while he pinned my corsage. Me in the middle looking impatient to be somewhere else.
“I was such a difficult teenager,” I said.
“You were a teenager. Difficult is part of the job description.” He turned a page. “Your mother used to say the hardest part of parenting was watching you need us less and pretending we were fine with it.”
I rested my head against the side of the chair. “I still need you. I just forgot how to say it.”
He closed the album carefully. “You’re saying it now. That’s what counts.”
We ate later than usual that night. The steaks were a little overdone because he had been distracted, but neither of us mentioned it. After dinner he asked if I would help him write down some of the stories behind the photographs. “For whoever comes after,” he said. “So the faces have names and the names have reasons.”
We spent the rest of the evening at the kitchen table with a legal pad and the album. He talked. I wrote. Some of the stories I had heard before. Many I had not. The house felt full in a way it had not since Mom was alive, full of voices that were no longer only memory.
When I finally stood to leave he walked me to the door and then further, all the way to the car. Snow was beginning to fall again, soft and slow.
“Same time next week?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Same time. And Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for cutting the steak in half that night. I don’t think I’ve ever said it out loud.”
He smiled, the real one, the one that reached his eyes. “You didn’t have to. You came inside. That was the thank you.”
I drove home through the quiet streets with the legal pad on the passenger seat and the sense that something important had settled into place. The empty chair was no longer a symbol of what was missing. It had become a place that could still be filled, even if only by memory and the decision to keep showing up.
Part 8
Spring arrived in fits and starts. The maple in the front yard began to leaf out. Dad’s doctor reported that the cognitive changes remained mild and stable. I reduced my hours at work by one full day a week. The decision cost me a promotion I had once thought I wanted more than anything. The day I told my manager, I felt a strange lightness instead of regret.
On a bright Saturday in April we finally emptied the last of Mom’s closet. The clothes went to a women’s shelter she had volunteered with years earlier. The wooden box of letters stayed. So did a small stack of recipe cards written in her hand, the ink faded but still legible. Dad and I spent that afternoon trying to recreate her lemon pound cake from one of the cards. We failed the first two attempts. The third came out almost right. We ate it warm, standing at the counter, and declared it close enough.
That evening he asked if I had thought any more about the house.
“I have,” I said. “I think I’d like to keep it. Not right away. Not while you’re still filling every room with your own life. But someday. When the time is right.”
He nodded slowly. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that. Your mother always believed this place was meant to hold more than one generation.”
We sat on the back steps as the light faded. The cardinals had returned to the feeder. A light breeze moved through the new leaves.
“There’s something else,” he said after a while. “I’ve been talking to a lawyer. Updating the will. Making sure everything is clear so you won’t have to guess later.”
I felt the familiar tightness in my chest and then, surprisingly, a steadying. “All right.”
“It’s not about expecting anything soon. It’s about not leaving you with questions.”
“I know.”
He reached over and patted my knee once, the same gesture he had used when I was small and needed reassurance. “You’re doing great things. I still tell her that. Only now I get to tell you too.”
I leaned into his shoulder. The evening was cool but not cold. Somewhere a dog barked and was answered by another. Ordinary sounds. The kind that make a life feel continuous.
Later, alone in the guest room, I opened the wooden box and read the last of Mom’s letters. In it she wrote that she hoped I would learn, sooner than she had, that the people who love us do not need us to be impressive. They only need us to be present. I sat with that sentence for a long time. Then I turned off the light and slept without the restless dreams that had followed me for years.
Part 9
The second anniversary of Mom’s death fell on a Thursday. I arrived at the house early, uncertain what the day would ask of us. Dad had already set the table. Two places. The good steaks were in the refrigerator, waiting. On the counter sat a small bouquet of the yellow roses she had always preferred.
“I thought we might go to the cemetery after dinner,” he said. “If you want.”
I did.
We ate quietly. The conversation stayed light until the plates were cleared. Then he brought out a folder I had not seen before. Inside were copies of the updated will, a list of accounts, the name of the lawyer, and a single sheet of paper in his handwriting titled Things I Want You to Know.
I read it while he washed the dishes. Most of it was practical. Some of it was not. He wrote that he was proud of the woman I had become even on the days I could not see it myself. He wrote that the empty chair had never meant I was absent from his thoughts. He wrote that the night I came back for my keys and stayed for dinner had been the first time in a long while he had felt the house breathe again.
When I finished reading I set the paper down and walked into the kitchen. He turned from the sink. I did not say anything. I simply put my arms around him and held on. He smelled of dish soap and the faint spice of the steak seasoning. His shoulders felt solid under my hands.
“I’m glad you wrote it down,” I said against his shirt. “But I’d rather keep hearing it from you directly for a long time.”
“That’s the plan.”
We drove to the cemetery as the sun was lowering. The grass was already thick with spring. We stood at the headstone without speaking for several minutes. Dad placed the yellow roses carefully against the base. I told her, quietly, that we were still talking to her, still setting the extra place, still learning how to keep the family from shrinking. The wind moved through the trees and I chose to believe it was a kind of answer.
On the way home the sky turned the deep blue of early evening. Dad looked out the passenger window and said, almost to himself, “She’d like that we went together.”
“She would.”
At the house I stayed the night without being asked. In the morning we made coffee and sat at the table with the second chair pulled close. No one needed to speak for the silence to feel complete.
I left after breakfast with the folder under my arm and the knowledge that the hardest conversations were no longer waiting somewhere ahead of us. We had already begun them. The rest would come in the ordinary way, one Thursday at a time.
Part 10
A year later the maple in the front yard was fully leafed and casting the same patterned shade it had when I was a child. I had moved into the house in early summer, keeping my old apartment for another two months just to be certain. Dad stayed in the primary bedroom. I took the guest room and slowly made it mine. The wooden box of letters lived on the bookshelf in the living room where anyone could reach it.
Thursdays remained sacred, though now they required no drive. Some evenings we still cooked the good steaks. Other evenings we ordered takeout and ate it on the back steps watching the cardinals. The empty chair stayed where it had always been. Sometimes we left it empty on purpose, a quiet acknowledgment. Sometimes one of us sat in it without comment. It no longer carried the weight of absence alone. It had become part of the furniture of a life that was still unfolding.
Dad’s memory stayed mostly steady. On the days it slipped we treated the lapses the way we treated changes in weather: noticed, adjusted for, not allowed to define the season. I learned the names of his medications and the rhythm of his doctor visits. He learned the new routes I took to work and the names of the colleagues who had become friends. We told each other the small stories of our days the way Mom had once written them in letters, ordinary details offered as proof that we were still here.
On the anniversary of the night I first saw him through the window, I came home to find the table set for two and the good steaks already seasoned. He looked up from the cutting board and smiled.
“I bought the good ones,” he said.
“I know.”
We cooked together. When the meat was ready he sliced one steak cleanly in half and placed a portion on each plate, the old gesture made new by the fact that both chairs were occupied. We ate slowly. Afterward we sat with coffee and the last of the daylight.
“I’ve been thinking about that night,” I said. “The first one. How close I came to missing it.”
He nodded. “I think about it too. Mostly I think about how you walked in and said you were hungry. Simple sentence. Changed the temperature of the whole house.”
I reached across the table and took his hand. The skin was thinner still, the veins more pronounced, but the grip was familiar and sure.
“I’m not too busy anymore,” I said.
“I noticed.”
We stayed at the table until the light was gone. Outside, the porch light clicked on automatically the way it always had. Inside, the kitchen held the quiet sound of two people who had remembered how to keep each other company.
Later, after the dishes, I stood for a moment in the doorway of the living room and looked at the chair that had once been only hers. It was empty. It was also full of every conversation we had continued in her absence, every Thursday that had refused to shrink, every ordinary evening that had turned out to matter more than the impressive ones.
I turned off the overhead light and left the lamp on beside the recliner, the way Dad preferred it. Then I went down the hall to my room, past the closet that no longer held her coats, past the shelf that still held her letters, and slept in the house that had learned how to hold all three of us again.
The good steaks, it turned out, were never really about the meat. They were about the decision to keep setting the table even when the answer might be no. They were about the quiet courage of cutting one portion in half and believing someone might still walk through the door. They were about a father who refused to let the family disappear simply because one chair had gone empty.
I call him now without needing a reason. I show up without needing an invitation. And on the nights when the house feels especially still, I sometimes speak into the quiet the way he taught me, telling the empty spaces the small true things: that we are still here, that we are still fortunate, that the table remains set for whoever needs a place.
The smile on his face that first night broke my heart open in the exact place it needed breaking. What grew in the opening was not loneliness. It was the decision to stay.
Call your parents. Go to the dinner. The good steaks will not wait forever. But the people who love you will keep a plate warm for as long as they are able. Meet them there while the light is still on.
