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The Broken Armchair

“I’m going to sell it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it?”

She let her gaze flicker over the chair in the corner, only for a moment, “I hate it.” She said.

“Not comfy?” Her brother asked, completely oblivious to her discomfort.

“It’s awful.” She said through a clenched jaw.

He threw himself into the chair and the familiar bark of leather shot through her like a bolt of electricity, her shoulders tightened and she visibly turned away from him.

“Oh, this is lovely,” he remarked.

She could hear him fondling for the button to release the reclining legs.

“Do you want it?” She asked.

He released the button and his legs sprung up, “Oh, yes!” He hollered.

“Will you take it?” She asked again, through gritted teeth.

“I thought you wanted to sell it?”

“I don’t want anything for it,” she said, “you can have it.”

“Might take you up on that.” He said. “If you hated it so much, why did you buy it?”

Like a blade in her gullet, memories stabbed through her. Sitting beside her husband and scrolling through websites for a nursing chair, playfully arguing over why she couldn’t just sit on the sofa and breastfeed.

“They make nursing chairs for a reason!” She scoffed.

“Nah, they’re just after your money, babe.”

“Think about my posture, think about my poor back in the middle of the night when he gets here,” she said, absently running her fingertips across the small swell of her pregnant belly.

“What about one of these?”

They chose a recliner in the end, an expensive leather recliner for the lounge so she could retreat and watch TV during the night when the baby was up all hours. She could lay back and snooze without having to go back upstairs to bed, he reasoned. She knew he was also after the chair for his gaming but she didn’t mind. A shared expense felt more sensible, and it would be used for longer than her breastfeeding journey, she reasoned.

“Take the chair, brother.” She said now, through tears.

Neither of them had ever sat in that chair, no baby had ever arrived and it had loomed in the corner for five years. It would have been gathering dust if the cleaner hadn’t given it a regular wipe down every week.

“Hang on,” her brother said. “What about if it’s broken, you said it was broken?”

“It’s not broken.” She said quietly, “I am.”

The writing prompt that I used for inspiration can be found below. Do join in and link your own work in the comments. I love to read and connect with the writing community ❤️


10 responses to “The Broken Armchair”

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