Then she carefully opened it.
She removed a small wooden box.
The wood had darkened with age, and one brass hinge was slightly crooked.
Noah recognized it immediately.
“Dad’s toolbox?”
She smiled faintly.
“His little one.”
Noah took it with trembling hands.
His father, Samuel Hale, had been a carpenter.
He died when Noah was eleven, leaving behind unpaid medical bills, a modest house, and a workshop filled with tools he had repaired himself.
Noah remembered sitting on the workshop floor beside him, watching his father carve toys from scraps of wood.
Inside the small box lay a pocketknife, a brass measuring tape, and a folded piece of paper.
Noah touched the knife.
“Dad taught me to sharpen this.”
“I know.”
Margaret’s voice warmed.
“You nearly took the skin off your thumb the first time.”
Despite everything, Noah laughed.
He unfolded the paper.
It was a childish drawing of a house.
The windows were crooked.
The roof was bright blue.
Two stick figures stood beside the front door.
One was labeled Mom.
The other was labeled Me.
Beneath them, in uneven handwriting, were the words:
When I grow up, I’ll build a house where Mommy never has to work again.
Noah stared at the drawing.
He had forgotten making it.
Margaret had not.
