The Chair Nobody Claimed

There was a chair in our house that nobody liked.

That’s not the same as saying it was broken, though it might’ve been. Or dirty, though that was also a strong possibility. Or haunted, which, frankly, was never ruled out.

All I know is this: we would rather sit on the floor than sit in that chair.

Bare legs against cold linoleum.

Dust sticking to the backs of our thighs.

Pins and needles creeping in, still better than the chair.

Not one of us could tell you why.

Which was saying something, because chairs in our house were rarely just chairs.

They held piles of laundry waiting to be folded.

Stacks of mail no one had opened.

Coats, purses, half-finished projects, grocery bags we meant to reuse.

If something didn’t have a place, it landed on a chair.

All of them, except that one.

That chair stayed empty.

It looked harmless enough. Wooden legs worn smooth where hands had grabbed and dragged it. A woven seat that smelled faintly of old hay, spilled coffee, and something sour you couldn’t quite name. The kind of chair that pretended it belonged in a kitchen.

No obvious stains.

No loose legs.

No warning label.

And yet… nobody trusted it.

Maybe one of the hundred dogs or cats had claimed it in a way that could never be undone.

Maybe something spilled and soaked in deep enough to live there forever.

Maybe it was uncomfortable in a slow, sneaky way, the kind of chair that waits until you relax before betraying you.

We didn’t know. We just knew.

No one ever warned you about it; you just learned by watching.

That was true of more than the chair.

What made it worse was this: the chair moved.

Not dramatically. Not enough to call a meeting over. But enough to notice.

One day it would be by the table, angled just enough to catch your shin in the dark.

The next day, pushed closer to the wall like it had been scolded.

Sometimes it showed up in a room where no one remembered putting it, breathing quietly, minding its business.

And at night, I swear, I heard scooching.

A soft scrrrch… scoooch across the floor.

Wood on linoleum.

Slow. Deliberate.

Like the chair was stretching.

Or thinking.

Or choosing.

The holidays were when the chair really earned its reputation.

The house filled with noise, forks scraping plates, adults talking over one another, kids running through with sticky hands. The air thick with the smell of fried food, coffee that had been reheated too many times, cigarette smoke clinging to coats by the door.

Family came from everywhere…cousins, aunts, uncles, and occasionally someone brought a new person. A friend. A girlfriend, maybe number four. A boyfriend who didn’t know about the other boyfriend. The kind of guest who smiled too much and tried too hard.

Chairs disappeared fast.

And there it would be.

The chair.

Waiting.

If the new person sat down, and they often did, we’d all go quiet. Not obvious. Just still. Watching from across the room while pretending not to.

Would they shift?

Would they wrinkle their nose?

Would they stand up suddenly like something had gone terribly wrong?

Because surely… something had to happen.

But nothing ever did.

They’d sit there just fine. Eat their food. Laugh. Stay planted like the chair was no different from any other.

We’d exchange looks.

Huh.

And the minute they stood up, the chair went right back to being avoided. Sometimes, mysteriously, in a different spot.

No questions. No explanations. No second chances.

To this day, I couldn’t tell you what was wrong with that chair.

But when you grow up learning by watching, learning what to avoid, where not to sit, when to disappear, you stop needing explanations.

You trust what your body knows.

And if a chair scooches at night, you don’t argue with it.

You just sit on the floor. 😉