In the corner of my parents’ living room sits a brown leather Lay-Z-Boy. My dad’s chair. You always knew when he was in it. The leather would sigh, the footrest would clunk, and tucked under the cushion were brochures for Dodge minivans. He never told us not to sit in it, we just didn’t. It was his spot. After he passed, the chair sat empty. Not as a rule, just out of respect. Eventually someone sat in it again, and it didn’t feel wrong. It felt like life quietly making room for someone new. Almost everyone I talked to had their version of that chair. A squeaky recliner. A couch corner no one else dared claim. These chairs aren’t just furniture, they’re memory holders. Anchors for routines, relationships, and sometimes grief. At our house now, we’ve got two gray stools at the kitchen counter. We pictured morning coffees, quiet chats, fresh baking under one of those diner-style glass domes. But they mostly sit empty. The counter’s a drop zone for mail and chargers. We gather in the other room instead. Those chairs? They’re not failures. They’re reminders of the things we meant to make time for. Some chairs we sit […]