The table had a burn mark near one corner.
Nobody knew who made it. Some people blamed Grandpa. Aunt Jo said it was from a candle when she was sixteen. Either way, everyone noticed it when they sat down.
It was the table where birthdays happened. It was the table where cousins played cards after Thanksgiving. It was the table where Grandma had rolled pie dough with flour on her hands and a radio playing low beside the sink.
Now it sat in the garage.
Ben needed money for his wedding.
He and Tori had cut almost everything already. They picked a smaller place. They skipped the band. They asked friends to take pictures. But they still needed enough for food, chairs, and a simple meal for the people they loved.
A buyer had offered good money for the table.
“He restores old furniture,” Ben said. “He’ll take care of it.”
His sister, Kayla, ran her hand over the burn mark.
“Then it’s gone,” she said.
“It’s been in the garage for two years,” Ben said. “Nobody uses it.”
“That doesn’t mean it means nothing.”
Their dad stood by the open garage door. He had planned to give Ben money, but his hours at work had been cut. He looked at the table and said nothing.
Tori came in quietly.
“We don’t want your family to lose something for us,” she said.
Ben shook his head.
“You’re family too.”
Kayla pictured future holidays. She pictured kids she didn’t have yet sitting at that table. She pictured Grandma’s old chairs around it.
Then she pictured Ben and Tori eating dinner after their wedding, tired and happy, with no fear about the final bill.
Their dad set an envelope on the table.
Inside was the buyer’s offer.
Ben picked up a pen.
Kayla put her hand over the paper.