“Honesty. The chance to build something with you. The chance to keep choosing you without either of us having to pretend we’re someone else.”
She kissed me.
It was not a promise that nothing would ever go wrong.
It was a promise that we would face what went wrong together.
And that was enough.
The workshop opened the following autumn.
We called it The First Cut.
It was a modest building with a wide central workroom, a classroom, a small library, and a wall of windows that filled the space with morning light.
We offered free woodworking classes to young adults who wanted practical skills, career direction, or simply somewhere to start again.
I taught the first class.
Diane stood near the back, watching as twelve students learned how to measure, mark, and cut their first pieces of wood.
Some were nervous.
Some were impatient.
One young man nearly ruined his board by trying to rush the cut.
