ArcaMax

There once was a village with two houses.

The first house always kept an extra chair at the table. Not for anyone in particular, just in case. A neighbor, a traveler, a soul in need of soup. None of the chairs were especially decorative; they all had a place at the table's edge. And if someone new sat in one or the other, the host never asked why or to have them sit at a specific chair.

The second house had a table with matching chairs. Six matching plates, six forks, six napkins, but each napkin more immaculately stitched as they flowed toward the head of the table. They were ready for six. But if a seventh person arrived, the host would pause. "We weren't expecting you," the owners would say. "Did anyone mention a fee?"

One day, an expected traveler came through the village on a visit. They brought someone dear with them, not an official guest, but a person they cared about.

The companion didn't ask for anything. They carried their own bag and stood slightly behind the traveler. The companion felt insecure, a bit less than the owners of the houses already, and knew they weren't there to speak or to demand, but just to witness and be present with someone they loved.

But presence can cost something. In some places, presence alone tips a balance, disrupts a headcount, triggers a reevaluation of fairness. In other places, it doesn't. It's absorbed, like steam, into soup. It becomes part of the flavor, not a line item on the ledger.

The traveler understood. They had lived in both houses.

The second house was not unkind, just particular. Not rude, just precise. Still, as they stood holding their coat, the traveler remembered something from another place: where people cooked with more food than necessary, just in case someone came by, or where a friend of a friend of a cousin was still a welcome guest. Where abundance wasn't about money but a mindset.

The traveler entered both homes that day. One made them feel honored. The other made them feel counted. And counted, the traveler thought, is not the same as included.

In my life, I've learned that hospitality isn't about wealth or even about generosity. It's about worldview. Some cultures assume limits. Others assume plenty. And sometimes, those assumptions define the success of what we try to build together.

We all say "inclusion" but hold different ideas of what that really means. Where one culture values order and fairness for inclusion, another can value presence. Another can value people, even when there are more than expected. I've learned this: If you're trying to build something -- connection, cooperation, trust -- you don't want someone to feel like a mistake. Or an extra.

Sometimes, the inclusion isn't about the seat; it's whether people believe in sharing the table. You can't measure goodwill just by tallying the invoices; it's about who is fed. In the end, you may want to be the house with the extra chair. But I'd caution, be the one that people return to.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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