“The Chair My Father Never Sat In”

It was the most expensive thing he ever bought for himself.

A soft brown recliner chair. Leather. Heavy. The kind you sink into and forget about the world.

He’d pass by it in the shop for weeks before finally walking in. He didn’t ask for help. Didn’t measure the room. Just pointed and said,

“I’ll take that one.”

The salesman asked if he wanted it delivered.

My dad — a man who insisted on carrying every burden himself, even furniture — said,

“No. I’ll figure it out.”

When it arrived, my mother laughed.

“He’s worked his whole life standing. Now he wants to sit like a king.”

He smiled but didn’t say much.

He had a quiet way of loving things — tools, shoes, routines.

He never bought anything that wasn’t for someone else. Never indulged. Never splurged.

Until that chair.

It sat in the corner of the living room, perfectly angled toward the window. The light hit it just right around 5 PM — the time he usually got home.

Except… something strange happened.

He never really used it.

Not because he didn’t want to.

But because every day, there was something else to do first.

A leak to fix. A bill to pay. A call to return.

A neighbor who needed help. Groceries to grab. A grandkid to pick up.

He’d get home, glance at the chair, then mutter,

“I’ll sit later.”

Later became a habit.

Weeks passed. Then months.

The chair remained untouched.

We joked about it.

“It’s the most expensive decoration in the house.”

“Maybe he’s just waiting for retirement.”

“Or maybe he doesn’t know how to stop.”

We all said these things — lightly — but I think we knew there was truth behind the jokes.

He didn’t know how to rest.

He only knew how to earn it.

Even if his body was tired. Even if his back ached. Even if he dreamed about that chair on long drives home — he wouldn’t let himself relax until everything else was done.

But everything else was never done.

And then one afternoon…

He didn’t come home.

A heart attack.

Sudden.

Too fast for last words.

Too final for second chances.

He died in his work clothes.

His boots still on.

A hammer still in the back of his truck.

The chair never got warm.

After the funeral, I came home early one morning and stood in front of it.

It looked smaller now.

Sadder.

Almost ashamed — like it had waited too long and failed him.

I sat in it.

Slowly.

Heavily.

It was everything he said it would be.

Soft. Supportive. Still.

And I cried.

Not just because he was gone.

But because of what he missed — what so many people miss.

We live as if rest is a reward.

As if we have to earn softness with suffering.

As if stillness is shameful.

As if comfort is dangerous.

We think we’ll finally let ourselves breathe once the house is clean, the emails are answered, the money is saved, the body is fixed, the work is done.

But the work is never done.

And the truth is…

Rest is not something you earn.

It’s something you need.

And waiting too long for it can cost you everything.

My father didn’t die because of the chair.

But the chair has become a monument to everything he postponed — joy, ease, lightness, being still without guilt.

He carried so much for so long that when the chance finally came to put it all down… he was already gone.

Now, I keep that chair. Not as furniture. As a reminder.

It’s where I sit when I need to reset.

It’s where I go when I feel overwhelmed.

It’s where I remind myself that the world doesn’t end when I pause.

That chair has held my grief.

My healing.

My re-learning of what it means to live without waiting for permission to rest.

And if I ever have children, I’ll tell them about it.

About the man who gave everything to everyone and asked for nothing in return.

And the chair he never sat in.

So, if you’re reading this and you’re tired — let me say what no one may have ever told you:

You don’t need to accomplish one more thing today.

You don’t need to prove your worth to rest.

You don’t need to wait until you’re burnt out to pause.

You are allowed to sit down.

You are allowed to say “not today.”

You are allowed to soften.

Because sometimes the most painful things in life…

aren’t the things we did.

But the things we waited too long to do.

Let your chair get warm while you’re still here to feel it.

Don’t let your rest become a relic.

You are already enough — even in stillness.