Years passed like that.
Not many.
Not enough.
I learned carpentry.
At first, because Evelyn encouraged it. Then because I liked the honesty of wood. You could not charm it. You could not manipulate it. If you cut badly, it showed. If you measured wrong, it punished you. If you were patient, it became something useful.
I started making small repairs around the neighborhood.
Then custom shelves.
Then tables.
Evelyn insisted I open a small workshop in the detached garage.
“Harold always wanted that space used for something good,” she said.
I laughed. “You think I’m something good?”
She looked at me for a long time.
“I think you are becoming something good.”
No compliment had ever hurt me that much.
By the third year of our marriage, I no longer checked her bank statements when she left them on the desk.
By the fourth, I stopped wondering what the house was worth.
