Dear child,
At just 8 years old, you may not grasp the weight of your remarks—especially those pointed, teasing comments you made the other day after I warned you about the consequences of scratching your fork against the delicate surface of my cherished kitchen table: “Why do you always say it’s ‘your’ kitchen table? Dad bought it. He’s the one who works.”
I can see how it looks from your perspective. Your dad is the primary earner, the one who brings home the bacon, the hero of the household. I’m merely a work-from-home mom, bringing in just enough to cover the occasional family getaway, your music lessons, and our weekly trips to Buffalo Wild Wings. I’m also the cook, the housekeeper, the chauffeur, and all the other roles that, if monetarily valued, would likely add up to a hefty sum. So yes, it’s understandable why you think your dad is the one who purchases “everything.”
One day, my dear child, we will have a conversation about how, legally speaking, a portion of every dollar your father earns is also mine and how the work I contribute to this household is invaluable. But that discussion can wait. For now, I want to make it clear:
The kitchen table is mine—not your father’s, not yours, and not even a shared family possession. It belongs to me.
I fell in love with that stunning piece of wooden craftsmanship when I stumbled upon it on Craigslist. It might seem like just a table to you, but it’s one of the most beautiful items I’ve ever owned, and it brings joy to my space. I treasure it and want to protect it.
It’s mine because I found an incredible deal on it. After scouring Craigslist for months, I discovered the perfect match (even better!) for a table that was significantly pricier in the World Market catalog.
It’s mine because I organized the pickup using your uncle’s truck and made sure to refill his gas tank afterward.
It’s mine because I physically loaded that hefty piece—likely hundreds of pounds—into the truck and maneuvered it inch by inch down the hallway to our kitchen.
It’s mine because I lay down the plastic covering so you and your sister can create art without worrying about damaging it.
It’s mine because I prepare the meals that we serve on it.
It’s mine because I chose the quirky red chairs and the sleek white light fixture that complement it perfectly.
It’s mine because I wipe it clean when you and your sister forget to use the protective mat and leave behind traces of your creativity.
It’s mine because I sweep and mop underneath it.
But most importantly, dear child, the table is mine because I deserve to have at least one item in this home that is exclusively mine—a sanctuary from the chaos that can often ensue when a fork is mindlessly dragged across its surface. To me, this table represents much more than a mere piece of furniture. It symbolizes motherhood in all its resilient beauty, its inevitable aging, and the wear it will endure, no matter how careful we strive to be.
So yes, the fact that the funds to purchase the table likely came from your father’s earnings makes my claim even more legitimate. This one beautiful item is mine. Do you understand?
And if you still doubt whether the kitchen table is mine, I have one final, irrefutable reason: Because I said so.