It was at a bend in the road that a small sign reading “Estate Sale Today” jutted out from the snow. Emma and Levi were six months married and about to buy a home. Aside from appliances, houses usually come empty, so the newlyweds would need to fill it. Levi immediately put the directional on and pulled into the long, circular driveway of the house hosting the sale.
It was early, so most of the furniture was still available. White stickers with red marker trumpeted each item’s price. A headboard, bed frame and matching dresser for $400. An antique hutch with brass latches for $250. Couches, a dining room set, a pool table, a treadmill and a set of mint-condition TaylorMade golf clubs; the bargains seemed endless.
As Emma and Levi wandered through the 2,400-square-foot Victorian home, they noticed a middle-aged man in a dark suit was standing watch by the door and taking money from customers. When he unzipped the leather satchel, a wad of cash peeked out. Off in the corner, sitting alone, was an elderly woman with white hair that matched her modest dress.
“Newlyweds?” she asked the couple as they strolled by.
“Is it that obvious?” Emma answered with a smile.
After covering most of the property and making up a list of the items they wanted to buy, the couple’s last stop was the beautiful kitchen. Granite countertops, hand-carved cabinets, Tuscany stone backsplash. Perfect.
That’s when they saw it. Something so ordinary, it clearly didn’t belong in such an elegant home. It was a plain, round, wooden table, with four matching chairs. The weathered wood wasn’t white but close enough. It too bore a sign, only this one read, “Not for Sale,” with a small red bow attached.
Levi was running his fingers across the back of a chair when a voice said, “It’s American white ash. The wood. Don’t see much of it. Pretty, isn’t it?”
The couple turned to find the elderly woman from earlier watching them from the doorway.
“Very pretty,” Emma replied. “But, not for sale.”
“No,” she answered. “It’s too valuable to sell.”
She could tell by their expressions that the newlyweds didn’t understand. The woman took a seat at the table and gestured for them to join her.
“This is my house. My husband died and I’m moving to something smaller.”
Emma and Levi nodded along.
“Of all the items in this house—I suspect most houses—the most valuable thing is often the kitchen table.”
“Why?” Emma asked.
The woman smiled warmly, “Kitchen tables are where toddlers sit on booster seats and learn to eat.They’re where homework is done, and where candles get blown out on birthday cakes. They’re where you share warm pancakes on snowy Sunday mornings.”
She continued. “This kitchen table is where I sat up with worry, waiting for my teenagers to come home safe. It’s where we did the bills and figured out how to pay for the childrens’ college.”
The old woman’s smile retreated now. “It’s where my husband sat to tell me he had cancer—where I held his hand and stroked his brow.”
She stood up. “The kitchen table is where life happens. The good and the difficult.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Levi said.
“I can see why you’re keeping it,” Emma added.
“Oh, I’m not,” the woman replied. “I’m here today because I was hoping someone special might wander in. And…”
“And what, ma’am?” Emma asked.
With that, the woman took the red bow off the table and stuck it to Levi’s sweater.
“They just did.”
