I sat there today. Same chair. Same green felt. Ten years I’ve played with Bill and Arthur. Ten years... every single week, every week. We talk about the finesses. We talk about the bidding. We argue about the Stayman convention like it’s life or death. But it’s not life. It’s just cards. Just paper and ink and silence... a lot of silence I didn’t notice until today. It’s pathetic. I’m sitting there with my heart outside my chest and they’re looking for a heart in the deck. Arthur asks me if I want a coffee. He says, “Does the wife want one too?” He forgot. He forgot she passed in 2014. He forgot she was ever here. Ten years of sitting across from this man and she’s just “the wife.” He doesn’t even know her name. Her name was Elena. ELENA. It’s a beautiful name, a name that tastes like home, like the pan dulce she used to make on Sundays... but to them, she’s a ghost I never even introduced. I just stared at him. I couldn't breathe. My lungs felt like they were full of dust. Back home... back in the old country, everyone knows your blood. They know your grandfather’s shame and your mother’s recipe for stew. Here? Here I am just a "decent partner." A reliable lead. I spent my whole life working, building, trying to be the perfect citizen, the perfect immigrant who doesn't make trouble. I learned their games. I mastered their language. I speak better than they do sometimes, use the big words, the sophisticated words... but I’m invisible. I’m a ghost playing cards with other ghosts. Mierda, it hurts. It hurts every single day. I realized today that if I died at that table, they’d just find a sub for next Thursday. They’d call the club manager and ask for a fourth. They don’t know I was an engineer. They don’t know I left everything to come to this cold place so my kids could have a future. They don’t know Elena had the loudest laugh in the neighborhood. They just know I play a strong no-trump. A strong no-trump... that is the sum of my life to them. Ten years of my life condensed into a bidding system. Everything is so quiet now. The house is quiet. The club is quiet. Even the arguments are quiet. I think about the way we used to talk at home—shouting, singing, crying—everything was BIG. Here, everything is small. Tiny. We talk about the weather. We talk about the rake. We never talk about the things that matter. I feel like I’m suffocating in this politeness. It’s a cage. A polite, beige cage made of cardstock. I wanted to scream her name. I wanted to stand up and flip the table and yell ELENA WAS REAL. She loved yellow birds and she hated the smell of cigars and she held my hand when the boat docked and we had NOTHING. We had nothing, Arthur! We had nothing, Bill! But I just sat there. I adjusted my glasses. I said, “She’s been gone a long time, Arthur.” And he just nodded. He didn’t even look up from his hand. He just said, “Right, right. Anyway, your lead.” Ten years. Ten years of my life wasted on people who wouldn't know my face if I wasn't holding thirteen cards in front of it. I’m 74 years old and I am a stranger to everyone I know. My children call and they talk about the grandkids and they talk about the "legacy" but they don't want to hear about the sadness. They want the happy version. The successful version. The version that doesn't wake up at 2am wanting to burn the bridge club to the ground. I’m looking at my hands right now. They’re shaking. Every single finger is shaking. I worked so hard to belong here. I erased my accent. I bought the right sweaters. I learned the right jokes. And the result? I am a man with no history. I am a man with no name. I am just a seat at a table. A placeholder. A utility. It’s a tragedy. A goddamn tragedy and I’m the one who wrote it. I think I’m done. I think I can’t go back. But if I don’t go back, where do I go? The park? The library? It’s all the same. More strangers. More polite nodding. More people who don't know Elena. I miss her so much it feels like a physical weight on my neck... every day, every day it gets heavier. And no one knows. No one even knows I'm carrying it. Maybe I'll go next week. Maybe I'll go and I'll play the cards and I'll smile. I’ll be the "good sport." I’ll be the "reliable partner." But inside... inside I am screaming. I am screaming and the sound is staying right behind my teeth. I'm just waiting for the last hand to be played. I'm just waiting to go home to a house that knows exactly who is missing.