A Place at the Table
Sadness shows up, bundled in coats and scarves, hair still damp, nose red and raw. Shivering and trembling, they desperately try to hold composure so that you won’t see. They do not bring a bottle or flowers for the table. They have odd socks and the sleeves of their jumper are stretched out over their knuckles.
You look them up and down. You feel sorry for them but you desperately wish that they would turn and walk away because you know that they will ruin the perfectly curated evening that you had planned. Where Happiness brought wine and Confidence wore their finest tuxedo and Curiosity holds the most fascinating conversation.
Why do they always have to do this? No matter how many times you close the door on them, Sadness always returns. Always the same, with no anger or bitterness. Just a quiet presence that longs to be let in. Why don’t they take the hint that they are unwanted? Why are they so relentless in this pursuit to be included? You wish they would just say their piece and then move on. But they don’t say a word. Just the odd sniffle as they struggle to hold your gaze.
You don’t understand and you tell them that they are not dressed appropriately and that they probably wouldn’t like it here anyway. That it would be too loud and they surely wouldn’t care for the food. That Excitement is inside and they never really got on anyway. It’s simply too crowded, so they should probably just head back home. You wonder where home is for them. Guilt comes to tap on your shoulder and see what is going on. You tell them you’ll only be a minute.
As they stand in front of you, shuffling on the frosty tiles and picking at their fingertips, you wonder if they have anywhere else to go. You picture them wandering in the darkness, the cold seeping through their bones and wind lashing across their face. You wonder how you missed this. Before you get the chance to open your mouth, Compassion comes skipping up the driveway with open arms and calls out to Sadness. They say how glad they are to see them and that they surely must join us for dinner, before looking up at you expectantly. Of course. You let out a deep breath as you usher them both inside.
Once coats have been shed and snow dusted from boots, you pull up an extra seat at the table. Sadness sheepishly accepts. Then you watch. As Empathy slinks an arm around their shoulders whilst Contentment reminds them to take deep breaths. You begin to notice how the room shifts around them. How the others instinctively make space without being asked. Trust leans in closer. Intrigue lowers the volume of the music. Amusement softens their punchlines, not to dull the laughter, but to make room for quieter smiles. Pride speaks gently now, not of achievements, but of survival. And Sadness, in their stillness, offers something unexpected. A depth to the evening that had been missing. The energy that once buzzed and crackled now settles, wrapping itself around the table like a blanket pulled tight.
The conversation no longer competes for space or applause. It flows. Stories overlap and diverge. Opinions are offered and reshaped. Laughter arrives, not as a performance, but as a release. Across the table, you catch Sadness looking at you. With no accusation or triumph. Just presence. You nod, almost imperceptibly, and they nod back. It feels like meeting each other, at last.
You stay with the feeling as it settles around the table. The way the room feels different now. The way no one rushes to fill the quiet. You glance toward the door, then back at the faces around you. You imagine it opening again one day, someone unfamiliar standing there, unsure. And you think you’d pull up another chair. You’d let them take their time. Because you can see it now. The evening was never improved by filtering the guest list. It was made richer by what you let in. By laughter that sat alongside tears. By quiet that came after the noise. You look at Sadness again and realise that they didn’t arrive empty-handed after all. They brought with them the weight of what mattered. The things that made the evening feel worth having at all.
A clink of metal against glass pulls you back to the room, as you raise a toast to Sadness. For being the shrine to all of the things that we truly care about, and for reminding us to stay open to whoever might come knocking at our door.
