Every house has a guest plan it apologizes for — the air mattress losing pressure by 3 am, the sofa bed with a bar where a spine goes. A daybed answers with structure: a solid teak frame, mortise-and-tenon joints, a slatted deck that holds a real twin mattress flat, year after year.
In the sunroom it earns its keep between visits — reading perch by afternoon, landing spot at six. Then Thanksgiving fills the house, the deck takes a sleeper's full weight without a creak, and your guest wakes up without a stripe across the back. Nobody apologizes for anything.