Is It Time to Set the Table Again?

Not because you know who’ll come—but because you want to believe someone might.

Image imagined and created in Canva

It started with an invitation—simple, no RSVP. Just six chairs and a hope.

Riley and Ben didn’t call it a potluck. It wasn’t a reunion. It was a gentle experiment: What would happen if they made space every week for something that looked like belonging?

And one by one, the women showed up. Some with food, some with stories, some with nothing but the ache of being missed. Together they filled the seats—and the silences—with what they didn’t know they’d been craving.

This week’s stories aren’t about grand confessions or dramatic gestures. They’re about showing up with store-bought rolls and mismatched chairs, sitting down anyway, and letting the pie be crooked. They’re about finding your place even if it wobbles a little.

Maybe your table’s been empty lately. Or maybe it’s been full, but missing something quieter. A pause. A joke. A second glass of lemonade.

What if it didn’t have to be perfect?

What if it just had to be shared?

Pull up a chair. There’s still room.

1️⃣ The Invite Wasn’t a Command. But It Felt Like One

Riley had arranged the napkins three times. Folded. Unfolded. Diagonal. Then square again.

“This isn’t a restaurant,” Ben said gently.

She gave a tight smile. “I know.”

But she didn’t stop.

The table was too big for two, too hopeful for an ordinary Sunday.

Six chairs. Three candles. A vase of garden basil, already wilting.

Ben brought out the bread and set it down quietly. “Should we’ve called it a potluck?”

“No,” Riley said. “It had to be a dinner. A real one. The kind I’ve missed for too long. Since I lived with my father.”

When the knock came, she nearly dropped the forks.

Val stood in the doorway, holding a plastic grocery bag. “I brought rolls. Don’t judge me.”

Ben grinned. “Store-bought counts.”

Val stepped onto the veranda and eyed the setup. “I’m just here early to pick my chair.” She took the seat to Riley’s left, the one with the better view into the garden, flickering with fairy lights.

They had just started to pass the olives when familiar boots sounded from the steps. No bag this time. Just Raven, in her faded denim shirt and that way she had of looking like she knew what this was all about.

“You asked,” she said. “So I came.”

Riley smiled and nodded, hesitating before moving in to hug her. This time, Raven did not resist.

Ben welcomed his cousin and guided her to a chair next to Val. Val poured the wine. The candles flickered once, then held.

And in the space of three bites, the canyon whispered to those listening. ‘The other chairs will not be empty for long.’

2️⃣ She Almost Didn’t Go

Skylar wasn’t avoiding the dinner. She just hadn’t said yes.
The invite sat on her counter beside a stack of unread mail. It wasn’t formal. Just a message from Riley: Sunday. Real food. No excuses.

She’d stared at it all morning, arms crossed, mentally cycling through reasons to stay home.
Her back hurt. She hadn’t cooked in a while. It was probably one of those touchy-feely things.

She opened the fridge, closed it again.
Then spotted the blue-striped apron hanging from the pantry door.
It still had a faded sauce stain across the front. Years ago, she’d worn it while running a pop-up kitchen for displaced elders—comfort food on a card table, mashed potatoes served with dignity.

Skylar reached for the apron like a dare. What the heck she muttered. Jim’s away. Why not?
Then, I pulled out the cast iron and began to cook.

She arrived twenty minutes late, arms full. A casserole in one hand, a glass bowl of coleslaw in the other, warm rolls wedged under her elbow.
Ben opened the door and blinked. “You brought five sides?”
“I didn’t want to come empty-handed.” She said it like a joke, but her eyes searched the table.

Raven scooted over. Val stood to help.
Riley offered the chair nearest the candles.

Skylar hesitated, then sat.
The chair creaked a little. But it held.

3️⃣ No One Knew

Quinn sat in her truck, engine off, hands on the wheel. She had just gotten back to town from Hawaii. No one knew she was coming.

Through the windshield, she could see shadows flickering on the veranda, laughter, candlelight, and the shape of people leaning in.

She didn’t dislike gatherings. She disliked being expected to come. That’s why she didn’t tell. Not even Riley.

Somehow she knew they would all be there. It was Sunday. The day Riley’s family always had dinner.

Now, parked at the edge of the trees, she watched the dinner from a safe distance, the same way she’d once watched Fourth of July fireworks from her roof instead of joining the neighbors.

She reached for the door. Didn’t open it.

A laugh rang out. Skylar’s surprisingly warm.
Then Riley’s voice rose: “You’re not missing dessert, Quinn!”

She smiled. Of course, Riley knew she was there. Of course, she was going to call her bluff.

Quinn finally stepped out, adjusted her scarf, and took her time walking up the path.

When she reached the gate, no one stared.
Ben gave a nod. Val waved her fork in greeting.
Raven pulled out the last chair. An old patio rocker that didn’t match the rest.

Quinn sat down. The rocker leaned but didn’t tip. Riley handed her a drink and gave her a wink.
And for a minute, no one said a word.

She liked that.

4️⃣ Finding What Matters

The wind rose just as Ben lit the citronella candle.

The flame bent sideways, then steadied again.

Skylar’s napkin took flight, landing squarely in her wine.

She fished it out, wrung it over the railing. “Adds body,” she said, and the laughter that followed loosened the edges of the night.

Plates were pushed aside, forks stacked like small truce flags.

It was the hour when the conversation got slower, deeper and truths crept in sideways.

Val swirled the candlelight in her glass.

“When I imagined this chapter of life,” she said, “I thought I’d be… more certain. That I’d finally know what mattered.”

Raven looked over, quiet but steady.

Riley reached for the basil centerpiece, brushing her fingers through the leaves. “You taught me how to grow these,” she said softly.

Val smiled. “I did, didn’t I?”

Quinn leaned back in her chair. “You also taught me to stop overwatering everything.”

“Except your jokes,” Ben muttered, and they all laughed.

Raven nodded toward Val. “And you got back on a horse this year. That counts for something.”

Val felt her face warm. “Maybe it does.”

The wind caught again, rustling through the lanterns.

Skylar refilled Val’s glass without asking.

Val looked around the table. Their mismatched faces in the glow of candlelight, the hum of friendship still new but real.

“I guess you’re right,” she said, “I just didn’t notice I’d already found what I was looking for.”

The candle flared, and blew out.

The canyon said good night,

but no one got up to leave.

5️⃣ To what isn’t perfect

Riley brought out a blueberry pie.
It had cracked in the middle. The crust drooped on one side.

She set it down and sighed. “It’s crooked.”

Quinn leaned forward, elbow on the table.
“So are we,” she said, slicing the air with her fork. “That’s why it fits.”

Riley smiled, but her eyes misted.
She’d made this pie every year with her mother. Years had passed and this was the first time without her.

Val reached for the pie cutter. “I say we eat the broken side first. Give the rest a chance to settle.”
Skylar passed clean plates without comment.
Raven poured what was left of the wine.

Ben cut six slices.
Quinn took the first one, crooked and warm, and lifted her fork like a toast.
“To what isn’t perfect,” she said.
“And why it doesn’t matter,” Skylar added softly.

No one reached for their phone.
No one looked at the clock.

And no one left early.

🪑🥧🚪

No one tried to fix the empty spaces.

They just showed up with store-bought rolls and mismatched chairs, sat down anyway, and let the pie be crooked.

By the time dessert was gone, something softer had settled among them.

The quiet kind of knowing you can stay a little longer.