I knew what it was before I even looked. I hadn’t thought about it in years.
Under the seat, in carpenter’s pencil, in printing as square as a fence post:
Steph’s. Reglued 11-89. She leans back.
“That’s your grandpa,” I said. “Every chair he ever fixed, he wrote down who broke it and when. He said a chair ought to know.”
Dylan turned over the one beside it.
Jim dropped it. Easter 94.
That was Pat’s Jim, from across the street.
He turned over the next one.
Roberta stood on it to hang curtains. Knows better. 2001.
“That is a lie,” I said. “I did not know better.”
He almost smiled.
Then he turned over the eighth chair. The one with a little chip out of the front rung.
And he went still.
Dylan. Reglued 2019. So does he.
He was eight years old that year. Don had three more years in him. And nobody knew it.
Dylan crouched there in his mother’s driveway with his hand flat on the bottom of that chair seat.
He was eleven when his grandfather died. He doesn’t talk about it. Not ever.
“He wrote me down,” he said.
“He wrote all of us down.”
“I didn’t know he did that.”
“Neither did your mother. She never once turned one over.”
I had to stop and look up at the sky for a second.
“He’d be proud of how tall you got.”
Dylan wiped his face on his sleeve, quick, the way boys do.
Then he wrapped that chair himself. He did it slower than all the others. He tucked the comforter in twice.
I had the eleventh chair in my hands, and Dylan was coming behind me with a table leaf, when Stephanie’s car turned into the driveway.
She had to stop at the curb, because of the trailer.
She got out still in her work smock, with her purse hanging off her elbow. She looked at the trailer. At the comforters. At the chairs stacked seat to seat in the driveway. At her front door standing open on her empty dining room.
“Mom.” Her voice was thin. “What are you doing?”
I set the chair down on the concrete.
I didn’t raise my voice then. I haven’t since.
“I told you this morning. I’ll be needing my things for Thursday.”
“You said the turkey!”
“I said my things. You had a waiting room full of people, and I don’t blame you for not hearing.”
“You can’t just—”
She came up the driveway.
“I have twelve people coming in two days. Arlene is coming. Where am I supposed to put twelve people?”
I’d thought about what I would say to that. And I’d promised the Lord, and myself, that it would not be smart.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.