“Ethan,” Ma called, half scolding, half worried. “You’ve been at it for hours. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“I’m fine,” I said, not turning around. “Almost done with demo.”
She hovered in the doorway for a minute, arms crossed, pretending not to admire the mess.
“You want lunch?” she asked finally. “I can make you?—”
“Turkey and mustard,” I said automatically. “On white. Extra pickles.”
She sniffed. “Like you’re still sixteen.”
I grinned.
When she walked away, I heard her phone ring.
Then her voice — lower, conspiratorial, proud.
“Yes, he drove up last night… No, I didn’t ask him to… He just saw what needed doing… He’s fixing the bathroom, can you believe it?”
I paused, crowbar hanging loose in my hand.
“He always was good with his hands,” she went on, laughter threading through her words. “Always taking things apart and putting them back together better.”
My chest tightened.
I went back to work before she could catch me listening.
Five hours in, I finally stepped back.
The tub was gone. Walls stripped to studs. Old plumbing exposed like bones. Dust coated everything — me included.
I popped the tab on a beer, took a long pull, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
Then I set the can down.
Picked up the tape measure.
And dove right back in.
Because this?
This was who I’d always been.
And no matter how far I went, or how polished I became, it was still waiting for me — steady, honest, and strong — every time I came home.
The dust was still in my hair when I stepped out onto the back porch and flipped open my BlackBerry.
The screen glowed blue in the shade.
No missed calls. No emergencies from work yet.
I leaned against the railing, flexed my fingers once — already stiff, already rougher — then typed.
I didn’t explain more than I had to.
I never did.
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