Then he wrote something that neither of us expected.
Diane, if you’re reading this, it means I never found the right time to tell you what happened to the project. I kept saying I would explain everything when the plans were clearer, when the funding was secure, when life was less complicated.
But life doesn’t wait for us to feel ready.
The workshop was never really about woodworking. It was about giving people a place to begin again when they didn’t know what else to do with their lives.
Your father once told me that a good craftsman doesn’t make something perfect. He makes something strong enough to survive being used.
Diane stopped reading.
I looked at her.
“Your father?” I whispered.
She shook her head, confused.
Then she turned the page.
Mark had been referring to my father, not hers. He had called him that because, during one conversation about the young people they hoped to help, my father had said that the best thing an older man could do was teach someone how to build a future with his own hands.
