To be more specific:
When is my glass-topped dinette table more than just that?
Answer: When is became a symbol of my escape, after years of disrespect, anger, and – let’s face it – abuse, from a loveless marriage.
Yes, I bought a new house, a new car, a new life, and rooms full of new furniture. The car – gone; the house – gone; ditto for most of the furniture. But that table has remained, happily adopted by my new husband. Now, its time has come and I dither. It doesn’t work in our newly remodeled house, yet we squeeze around it, bump into it. Could it be because its the last visual evidence of the happy life I created, phoenix-like, from the ashes of misery?
Perhaps one day my children will ask each other, “Why did Mom keep this old scratched-up thing?”
I doubt they’ll know the answer. I sure don’t.