When I began helping at the school breakfast club, I believed that a welcome should be loud. I stood by the door calling “Morning!” as brightly as possible and pointed everyone towards the cereal and toast. Most pupils hurried past me. I told myself they were simply tired.

Then, one wet Tuesday, a new pupil stopped outside. His coat dripped onto the floor, and his hand remained wrapped around the door handle. I launched into my usual cheerful instructions. He nodded, but did not move. Only when I paused did he ask, almost beneath the hiss of the kettle, “Where am I supposed to sit?”

The room suddenly looked different. I saw crowded tables, bags on empty chairs and groups bent together like closed circles. My greeting had filled the doorway with sound, but it had not answered the question he was too nervous to ask.

I moved a bag, pulled out a chair and sat nearby until he joined a conversation. In the following weeks, I stopped trying to welcome everyone in the same way. Sometimes I explained where things were; sometimes I introduced someone; sometimes I simply left a clear space. The club did not become quieter, exactly, but I learned to listen before adding my voice. Now, when someone pauses at the door, I look beyond whether I have said hello. I ask whether the room has made space for them.