The Man Who Always Fixed the Chair

There was a chair by the window in my childhood home that never stayed broken.

It wasn’t a special chair. Wooden, plain, slightly uneven. One leg shorter than the others, so it rocked if you weren’t careful. Over the years, it cracked, loosened, and complained every time someone sat down too hard.

And every time, my father fixed it.

He never replaced it. Never suggested buying a new one. He would just bring out his small toolbox, sit on the floor, and work in silence. Tighten a screw. Add a sliver of wood. Sand the rough edges. When he was done, he’d test it once, nod to himself, and put the chair back exactly where it belonged.

By the window.

That chair saw everything. Morning prayers. Evening tea. Long phone calls where my father stared outside more than he listened. It held guests and groceries and tired bodies after long days.

I used to ask him why he didn’t just get a new one.

He’d smile and say, “This one still wants to work.”

At the time, I thought he was joking.

Years later, I realized he was talking about himself.

My father was the kind of man who fixed things quietly. Leaky taps. Torn bags. Broken routines. He didn’t announce it. He didn’t ask for thanks. He just did what needed to be done and moved on.

When life cracked him, he treated himself the same way he treated that chair.

Small repairs. No replacements.

When work got harder, he worked more. When money got tight, he cut his own comforts first. When dreams started to fade, he folded them carefully and put them away instead of throwing them out.

I left home in my twenties. Like most people, I told myself it was temporary. That I’d come back more often. That I’d notice things.

Time had other plans.

I visited less. Called when I remembered. Asked how he was and accepted “fine” as a complete answer. I didn’t notice when his hands started shaking slightly. I didn’t ask why the chair by the window looked more worn than usual.

On my last visit before everything changed, I sat on that chair. It wobbled.

My father watched me from the doorway. “Careful,” he said. “It needs fixing.”

He never got around to it.

After he passed, the house felt wrong. Too quiet, but not peaceful. Like a room holding its breath. We sorted through his things slowly. Clothes folded neatly. Tools cleaned and organized.

The chair by the window was still there.

I tried to fix it myself. I really did. I brought out the toolbox. Tightened screws. Added wood. But it wasn’t the same. The chair still rocked, like it was missing the one person who understood its balance.

Eventually, I stopped trying to repair it.

I moved it slightly, so the wobble mattered less. So it could still be used, even if imperfect.

Now, when I visit, I sit there sometimes. I look out the window the way he used to. I think about all the things he fixed without being asked. All the ways he held things together with patience instead of force.

Some people don’t replace broken things because they see value others miss. Not in perfection, but in effort.

The chair still wants to work.

So do I.