The Peacemaker's Chair

The air crackled with tension in the Mitchell family living room. Thanksgiving dinner, an annual gathering that promised delicious food and forced civility, had turned into a verbal battleground. The dining table stood abandoned, a half-eaten turkey at its center, flanked by cold mashed potatoes and gravy. What had begun as a minor disagreement about whether cranberry sauce should be served whole or jellied had escalated into a full-blown clash, with grudges long buried rising to the surface.

“You always dismiss my opinion!” Sharon snapped, jabbing her finger in the air toward her older brother, Mark. Her voice trembled, half from rage and half from exhaustion. “It’s not about the cranberry sauce, and you know it!”

Mark, arms crossed tightly over his chest, rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go again. Everything’s about you and your feelings. You can’t even take a joke anymore.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t feel that way if you didn’t mock me at every opportunity,” Sharon shot back.

Their mother, Linda, sat on the couch, rubbing her temples. “Please, can we just have one holiday without this nonsense?”

“Stay out of it, Mom,” Sharon said sharply. “This isn’t about you.”

“Oh, really?” Linda replied, her voice rising. “It’s always about me when you’re dredging up ancient history.”

“Why don’t you all just admit this family is dysfunctional and be done with it?” barked Greg, the youngest sibling, who had been trying to watch the football game but now found himself yelling over the noise.

The arguing voices overlapped, each one louder and angrier than the last, until Linda finally shouted, “Enough!”

The room fell silent for a brief moment, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the mantle. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Linda added, “I’m calling Gerald.”

Gerald Powell was not a family member. Nor was he a traditional mediator, therapist, or conflict resolution expert. Gerald was… unique.

He arrived an hour later, a compact man with a wiry build, wearing a battered fedora and carrying a small leather satchel. His sharp eyes darted around the room, taking in the chaotic scene: Sharon glaring daggers at Mark, Greg sulking in a corner, Linda looking defeated, and their father, Robert, sipping bourbon as though it might shield him from the turmoil.

“Good evening,” Gerald said, his voice calm but firm. “I hear you’ve got yourselves in a bit of a tangle.”

“You could say that,” Linda muttered, gesturing toward the fragmented family. “I’m desperate, Gerald. Fix this.”

He nodded. “I’ll do what I can. But I’ll need your trust—and your cooperation.”

“What exactly is he going to do?” Mark asked, his skepticism evident.

“You’ll see,” Linda said. “And you’ll thank me later.”

Gerald placed his satchel on the coffee table and unbuckled it with precision. From within, he pulled out a strange, ornately carved wooden chair. Its back was high and curved, adorned with intricate symbols that seemed to shift subtly in the flickering light of the fireplace.

“Behold,” Gerald said, gesturing to the chair, “the Peacemaker’s Chair. This is no ordinary seat. It compels truth, perspective, and understanding. One by one, each of you will sit here and share your piece of the story. But be warned—this chair doesn’t tolerate dishonesty or evasion. It will challenge you to confront not just your family, but yourself.”

The Mitchells exchanged uneasy glances. “This is ridiculous,” Mark scoffed. “You really think a chair is going to solve our problems?”

“Humor me,” Gerald said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Who wants to go first?”

No one volunteered. After an uncomfortable silence, Linda nudged Sharon forward. “You start.”

Sharon hesitated but eventually sat down. The moment her back touched the chair, she gasped softly, her eyes widening. The symbols on the chair glowed faintly, and the room seemed to grow quieter, as though even the house were listening.

“What’s happening?” Sharon whispered.

“Just speak,” Gerald encouraged.

“I—I feel strange,” she said. “Like I can’t hold back. I’m so… angry. Mark, you’ve belittled me for years. You always act like you’re better than me because you make more money and have a bigger house. But you don’t see how hard I work or how much I’ve sacrificed for this family.”

Mark opened his mouth to respond, but Gerald raised a hand. “Not yet.”

Sharon continued, her voice trembling but steady. “I feel invisible. You all dismiss my opinions, like when I suggested having Thanksgiving at my place this year. No one even considered it. It’s like nothing I do is good enough.”

When she finished, she slumped back in the chair, tears streaming down her face. Gerald helped her up and motioned for Mark to take her place.

Mark reluctantly sat, his usual confidence replaced by apprehension. The moment he settled into the chair, his posture stiffened. “This is absurd,” he began, but then his face softened. “Okay, fine. Maybe I do act superior sometimes. But it’s not because I don’t respect you, Sharon. It’s because… I’m jealous.”

“Jealous?” Sharon repeated, stunned.

“Yes,” Mark admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re so passionate about everything you do. You throw yourself into your art, your activism, your whole life, really. I bury myself in work because it’s all I know how to do. I make jokes because I don’t know how to connect with you any other way.”

Sharon’s anger ebbed, replaced by surprise and a hint of understanding.

Gerald nodded approvingly and motioned for Greg to take the chair next. Greg flopped into the seat with a dramatic sigh. “I don’t even know why I’m here,” he muttered.

The chair, apparently unimpressed by his attitude, began to glow more intensely. Greg’s expression shifted as he spoke. “Fine, I’ll say it. I hate being the youngest. No one takes me seriously. Mark and Sharon are always fighting, and Mom and Dad act like I’m just supposed to stay out of it. But I have feelings too, okay? I just don’t see the point in saying anything because no one listens.”

“Maybe because you don’t say anything,” Sharon interjected, but Gerald silenced her with a glance.

Finally, it was Linda and Robert’s turn. Linda admitted she often tried to mediate too much, not realizing she was invalidating everyone’s feelings. Robert confessed that his habit of retreating into silence and bourbon was his way of avoiding conflict—a strategy that clearly hadn’t worked.

As the family took turns in the Peacemaker’s Chair, the room began to shift. Tension gave way to understanding, and the arguments lost their sharp edges. By the time the last person had spoken, the Mitchells sat together on the couch, quiet but connected.

Gerald stood, folding the chair and placing it back in his satchel. “The Peacemaker’s Chair doesn’t solve problems,” he said. “It only reveals them. The rest is up to you.”

He tipped his hat and headed for the door. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

The Mitchells spent the rest of the evening at the table, eating cold turkey and laughing about the absurdity of their earlier fight. For the first time in years, they felt like a family again—not perfect, but willing to try.

And somewhere, in the glow of the fading firelight, the Peacemaker’s Chair waited patiently for its next call.