Not just a table, but the kitchen table I grew up at. I ate my breakfast off it for years and there are still fossilised cocoa pops embedded in its cracks.
When my parents divorced, they fought over it (I later discovered) and my Mother won, but over the years the family grew more and it became too small for seven children and the dog chewed the legs and it was Endangered.
When a new table was acquired, I insisted it was not junked, and it has lived in a shed in South London for the past decade, with woodworm and spiders and the occasional dart. Now it has come North and is mine and I shall work at it and it will become the centre of something again.