The garden chair sat unfolded in the eye of the mid-morning sun.

It longed to bear someone’s weight. The youngest, cross-legged, driving toy cars round its frame. Or the older one, sprawling, giggling, impossible to contain. Or the dad, slowly settling with the weekend paper. Or the mum, back curved gently, coffee in hand. Decaf. She was expecting again.

But they were all still inside.

The chair was forgotten — for now.

A small robin landed on its arm and tilted its head, as if to say, I know how you feel.

Inside, more coffee brewed. The mum and dad stood side by side, peering at the family wall planner for a blank square. The months ahead looked full and yet also unreadable. Their penned notes stacked across it like scaffolding: scans, school trips, playdates, swimming lessons. Life loaded by shorthand squiggles and smudges.

She moved to make toast. It was a wonder there was any space left — on the calendar, in the house, in herself — for another baby.

The toast scent drifted out the open patio door with the breeze. The chair held it close. It had learned to hold many things — laughter, comfort, crumbs of celebration and the imprint of a lost presence. A gift once given, now a memory that had settled deep in its cushions. True to form. Ready to hold whatever needed holding next.