Chapter 10 - Rebuilding
Z
Six months later, winter had settled over the city.
I stood in the center of a wide, open workspace inside an old industrial brick warehouse on the west side of town. The high ceilings were supported by massive, exposed wooden trusses, and sunlight poured through giant arched windows, illuminating tiny flecks of sawdust floating in the air.
Over the past four months, using the money I had saved and the proceeds from selling my old equipment, I had officially launched my own custom furniture and timber-framing business: Audrey Vance Woodworks.
I was no longer building roofs for people who didn't appreciate the sweat it took to nail down a single shingle. I was designing and crafting custom, heirloom-quality solid wood furniture for clients who valued craftsmanship, precision, and beauty.
My business partner, a brilliant interior designer named Clara, walked over carrying two steaming mugs of hot chocolate.
"The client for the dining table loved the walnut slab selection," Clara said, handing me a mug with a warm smile. "They paid the fifty percent deposit upfront. We're booked solid through the spring."
"That's fantastic," I said, taking a sip and feeling the warmth spread through my hands.
My hands were strong, covered in light calluses from handling rough-sawn maple and oak, but they were clean and unbruised. They were no longer the hands of an exploited daughter frantically working under a scorching sun to earn scraps of conditional affection. They were the hands of a master artisan, building a life entirely on her own terms.
My phone chimed on the workbench. It was an email notification from a real estate listing site that I had forgotten to unsubscribe from.
Property Sold: 142 Elmwood Terrace.
I clicked on the link out of mild curiosity.
My parents' former house had finally sold at a massive short-sale discount. The listing photos showed the grand, four-bedroom home stripped bare, the master bedroom ceiling still partially patched with rough plaster, the roof covered in basic architectural shingles installed by a commercial crew.
My parents had moved into a small, two-bedroom rental apartment on the outskirts of the county. My father had taken a part-time job as a hardware store consultant to help pay off their outstanding debt, and their luxury European vacation had become nothing more than a painful, forgotten dream recorded on expired pamphlets.
I closed the browser tab. I didn't feel joy at their downfall, nor did I feel sadness. Their lives were simply an equation that had finally balanced itself out—a direct, logical consequence of choices made with arrogance and greed.
I put my phone down on the workbench, picked up my smoothing plane, and set it against the rough edge of a massive piece of white oak.
May you like
I leaned into the stroke. The steel blade sliced through the wood with a sweet, rhythmic whisper, producing a thin, curling ribbon of timber that fell lightly to the concrete floor.
The wood beneath was smooth, flawless, and strong.
