The End Table Kept the Secret

That little end table ain’t never asked for attention. Short, square, dark wood rubbed dull from years of elbows and impatience. It stay tucked between the couch and the lamp, mindin’ its business, holdin’ whatever folks ain’t ready to face yet—keys, mail, half-finished prayers.

I come in quiet, shoes slid off by the door. House already warm, kettle murmurin’ to itself on the stove like it know what time it is. I pour the tea—oolong today—watch the color deepen, steady, unapologetic.

I sit on the couch edge first, habit. Couch sag where it always do, like it remember my shape even when I pretend I don’t. I set the mug on the end table. Wood cool under my fingers.

Mama voice float from the back room. “You eat?”

“In a bit,” I say. “I’m sittin’.”

“That’s new,” she say, amused but gentle.

Lamp flick on. Light catch dust in the air like small thoughts driftin’. End table got a nick on one corner from when I dropped my phone years ago, mad at somethin’ that wasn’t the phone’s fault. Ain’t nobody fixed it. Ain’t nobody needed to.

I lift the mug, sip slow. Tea got a bite, then smooths out, like it negotiatin’ peace with you. My shoulders drop without askin’.

Mama come sit across from me in the armchair, the one that turn a little left. Chair accept her weight like a promise kept. “You look tired,” she say.

“Yeah,” I admit. “But not runnin’ tired. Just… settlin’.”

She nod. “Furniture good at that. Settlement.”

Silence stretch—not awkward, just wide. End table hold the mug when I set it down again. Lamp hum soft. Couch stop complainin’. House breathe.

I realize I ain’t been thinkin’ about tomorrow. Or yesterday. Just the cup. The table. The way the room got my back.

Mama smile like she clocked it before I did. “See?” she say. “Ain’t every truth gotta be loud.”

I lean back all the way this time. Let the couch take me. Let the end table keep what I ain’t ready to carry just yet.

Tea stay warm.
Furniture stay patient.
And for once, so do I.