He placed a block plane on the table.
“First lesson,” he said, “never rush a cut because you are embarrassed about taking too long.”
Luis, photographing from the corner, said, “Is this woodworking advice or family advice?”
Dad did not miss a beat.
“Both.”
Everyone laughed.
Derek stood beside Veronica near the doorway.
They were doing well.
Not magically.
They still worried about money.
Derek still worked too much.
Veronica occasionally slipped into trying to organize everyone.
But now someone could say, “Veronica, enough,” and she could hear it without treating disagreement as rejection.
That was growth.
Small enough to miss if you were searching only for grand gestures.
After the opening, I found Dad alone in the original workshop behind the house.
The rusty key rested on his palm.
“You still carrying that?”
“No.”
He walked toward the workbench.
The hidden compartment remained open.
Inside were Granddad’s letters, the trust copies, the ledger, and photographs of our newly reopened workshop.
