No Echo Back

I still walk through the front door the same way I always have - keys dropped into the bowl like a tiny cymbal crash, grocery bags rustling behind me, and my voice sailing into the quiet:

“Honey, I am home.”

Old habits are loyal.
Mine is especially stubborn.

Once upon a time, Terry would answer with that cheerful, unmistakable “Alright!” - the kind of reply that made the whole house feel bigger, brighter, and slightly mischievous, as if he were announcing to the universe that he approved of my return. Even when MS slowed him down, even when he spent most days tucked in bed, his voice carried that spark. Light. Warm. A little funny. Entirely him.

These days, the house is gentler. Still kind, still familiar, but quieter in that way a room becomes when someone moves out of sight yet somehow not out of reach. I still call out anyway. Maybe out of rhythm. Maybe out of hope. Maybe because, after all these years, my voice knows exactly where home is supposed to land.

And even without an echo, I swear the air shifts a little.
As if something soft says back, I heard you.

Sometimes I imagine Terry rolling his eyes at me from whatever high-tech cloud chair he’s sitting in now, probably with better lumbar support than anything Earth has manufactured so far, wondering why I still announce myself like I’m returning from a heroic quest to the supermarket. But I can picture his grin. And that’s its own reply.

So I keep saying it. Cheerfully. Casually. Like I’m tossing a pebble into a familiar pond. The ripple always comes back, even if I can’t hear it.

“Honey, I am home.”

And in the quiet, something inside me still answers:

Alright!

Just as he always did.
Just as he always will.