Maya opened a second Slow Morning location and continued to insist that our relationship was her greatest professional achievement.
My mother visited twice a year.
The First Cut grew beyond anything we had imagined. Former students returned to teach new classes. Some found jobs in construction and cabinetmaking. Others started small businesses.
We built tables, shelves, and cabinets for community centers, schools, and families who couldn’t afford custom furniture.
And every year, on the anniversary of the workshop’s opening, we placed the original photograph of my father and Mark beside the entrance.
Two stubborn men.
One good piece of wood.
A plan worth finishing.
One cold evening, I found Diane in the reading room, holding that photograph.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
She looked up.
“How strange it is that I spent years believing my life ended when Mark died.”
I sat beside her.
“It didn’t end.”
“No. It changed.”
