Sunday dinners.
Telephone calls answered.
A birthday celebrated together.
A son showing up when he said he would.
One afternoon, Noah noticed a group of teenagers leaving Margaret’s backyard carrying pieces of wood.
He looked at her curiously.
“What’s going on?”
Margaret smiled.
“My little workshop.”
“Your what?”
She led him behind the house.
The old garage had been transformed into a modest woodworking space.
Several secondhand workbenches lined the walls.
Small shelves held donated tools.
Painted birdhouses hung near the windows.
Noah stared.
“You’ve been teaching woodworking?”
“Only basic things.”
“Since when?”
“About eight years.”
He looked around.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Margaret shrugged.
“You never asked what I did on Thursdays.”
The words were not cruel.
But they reminded him of everything he had missed.
She showed him a wall covered in photographs.
Young people holding chairs they had repaired.
Children proudly displaying wooden boxes.
Teenagers standing beside handmade bookshelves.
