One cabinet refused to close all the way.
One floor tile squeaked loudly enough to announce every visitor.
The kitchen table had a stubborn wobble unless someone folded a napkin beneath one leg.
Nothing inside it matched.
Every Sunday I told Mom she should finally replace it.
She would laugh. « And lose all these memories? »
That table had survived birthday cakes, homework assignments, scraped knees, college applications, burnt cookies, and countless cups of tea.
Its scratches weren’t damage. They were history.
Kevin understood that long before I realized he had.
Its scratches weren’t damage.
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