So, six months ago, during a window of time when my medication was working well and my hands were relatively steady, I built the eighth chair. I chose the most flawless pieces of cherry wood I could find, operating on the instinctual hope that Sarah would have the little girl she had always dreamed of.

I took my time, resting when my muscles spasmed, and working meticulously when they didn’t. When the chair was fully assembled and sanded down to perfection, I carried it to the back corner of the shop and covered it with a heavy canvas tarp. Then, I opened my weathered leather notebook—the one where I sketch all my designs and track my lumber costs—and I wrote down the final steps.

I mapped out the finishing lacquer. I noted the date I completed the woodwork. And, with a heavily shaking hand, I wrote down the exact message I planned to burn into the bottom of the seat when the time came. Which brings me to this morning.

Sarah came over for coffee, just like she does every Tuesday. But today, she didn’t even make it past the mudroom before she started crying. She pulled a crumpled ultrasound photo from her purse and held it up to me. She is pregnant. She is out of the danger zone.

Baby number eight, a little girl, is coming in September. We stood there holding each other, shedding tears of profound relief. I kissed the top of her head and told her how proud I was of her resilience. When she finally left to go share the news with her sister, the house fell incredibly quiet.

I poured the rest of my lukewarm coffee down the sink, put on my old canvas jacket, and walked out to the workshop. The air was chilly, and the dust motes danced in the morning light filtering through the small window.

I walked past the table saw I can barely safely operate anymore.

I walked past the hand planes I can no longer grip tightly. I went straight to my workbench and opened the old leather notebook to the bookmarked page. I looked at the notes I had scribbled six months ago. The wood is picked. The measurements are drawn.

The chair sits quietly under its canvas shroud in the corner, waiting for September. I traced my fingers over the messy, jagged handwriting on the page, reading the message I will burn into the bottom of the cherry wood seat this afternoon. It will be the most difficult thing I have ever written, because it is not just a message to a grandchild I may never get to hold.

It is a confession to my daughter. The message reads: “To my beautiful granddaughter. I built this chair long before you were born, because I knew you were coming, and I knew my hands wouldn’t last much longer.