So I accepted.
Not as a handout.
As a responsibility.
Orders grew. Mrs. Alvarez told people about my work. Then Caroline, without telling me, recommended me to a friend who owned a bakery and needed custom counters. That job led to another. Then another.
Six months after the funeral, Caroline came into the garage while I was sanding a dining table.
I turned off the sander immediately.
“Everything okay?”
She looked around the workshop.
The walls were lined with tools now. Drawings pinned above the bench. Finished chairs waiting for delivery. Sawdust bright in the morning light.
“She would have liked this,” Caroline said.
My throat tightened.
“I hope so.”
Caroline touched the edge of the table.
“She told me once that you were not what you seemed.”
I gave a humorless laugh. “That could mean a lot of things.”
“She said people kept asking whether she trusted you. And she said, ‘Not with everything. Not yet. But I trust what he might become.’”
I looked down.
Caroline’s voice softened, but only slightly.
“I hated you.”
“I know.”
“I still don’t know what to do with you.”
“That’s fair.”
“But I don’t think you’re pretending anymore.”
I could not answer.
She turned to leave, then paused.
