Some adjustments took longer.
The neighborhood had unfamiliar nighttime sounds.
The heating system made a humming noise that kept convincing me something was broken.
The hardest room remained the workshop.
Twice I walked downstairs, stood in front of the pegboard full of carefully outlined tools, then quietly walked back out.
I wasn’t ready.
Finally, in June, I went downstairs again.
This time I stayed.
I didn’t rearrange anything.
I simply cleaned the workbench, oiled the wooden handles, and replaced the lightbulb above the bench that had been flickering for months.
When I finished, I sat in Dad’s old camp chair.
Only then did I understand why he’d kept it there.
It was where he liked to think.
So I sat there thinking too.
I thought about Derek telling me he was glad I’d explained what the house meant.
I thought about Amber asking if she could always come back.
