By morning, it holds coffee mugs and quiet conversation.
Parents sit together before walking across the street to the hospital.
Sometimes they talk.
Sometimes they simply sit, gathering strength for the day ahead.
By lunchtime, the chairs have filled and emptied more than once.
A volunteer sets out soup.
Someone unwraps a sandwich.
A child proudly shows a coloring page to anyone willing to admire it.
By evening, the table changes again.
Homework is spread across one end.
Cookies appear at the other end.
Someone laughs during a game of Uno.
Someone else wipes away tears after a difficult day.
The House has watched families arrive as strangers to one another and leave the table as friends.
It has watched volunteers pull up another chair without being asked.
It has watched children remind adults how to laugh again.
A kitchen table cannot change a diagnosis.
It cannot shorten the miles between home and the hospital.
But it can remind a family that life is still happening.
Conversations still matter.
Coffee still tastes better when shared.
And hope has always found its way to the table.
Tomorrow, someone will pull out another chair.
The House will make room.
It always does.
