I glance over.
“She didn’t come because she and Tina spent the whole day at a soup kitchen,” Beth says. “They were handing out meals, coats, and toys to people who didn’t have anywhere else to go. Women, kids... people sleeping in shelters and tents.”
She pauses, then continues, “You know Elle aged out of the system, right? The day she turned eighteen, Meghan kicked her out of the group home with nothing but a scholarship and the clothes on her back. No money. No plan. No family. Meghan didn’t even flinch. She just handed her a trash bag for her things and told her she’d never see her sister again because the adoption was closed.”
Beth’s voice softens. “Elle had to survive on friends’ couches, cheap motels when she could scrape the money together—and when she couldn’t, crowded shelters—until her dorm finally opened up. She was completely alone. And the saddest part is that Meghan knew perfectly well there were people who cared about her and wanted to make her part of their family… us.”
"I wish Elle would talk to me and open up the way she does with you," I say. "I want to be there for her. I want her to trust me. But honestly, I feel like Elle's resentment—toward me, and the whole situation with you, her, and Meghan—is stronger than any love we might feel for each other."
"How can you say that?" Beth says. "I know she loves you and Hannah. What else could be stronger?"
"Bethy, that’s not something you should be asking me," I say gently. "You should be asking her."
***
Hannah is in the shop with me, tucked into her makeshift play-and-school corner. She’s got markers scattered across the table and a piece of paper in front of her, tongue poking out in concentration as she draws. Something Beth used to do when she was little.
I’m a few feet away, polishing a cedar bench I’ve been working on all week.
“Daddy,” she says without looking up, “I want you to show me how to make furniture.”
I pause mid-stroke and glance over at her. Her legs swing beneath the little stool I made her last spring, and she’s got a crayon in each hand, eyebrows scrunched in focus. She looks like she’s planning something big.
“You do, huh?” I set the rag down. “What kind of furniture?”
She shrugs. “Something pretty. For my dolls.”
A smile pulls at my lips. She doesn’t know it yet, but tucked behind some lumber in the back of the shop, is her Christmas present. A wooden dollhouse kit. Not the kind that comes already painted and assembled, but the kind with raw pieces, blueprints, and real nails. The kind a little girl can help build, paint, and design with her dad.
The plan isn’t just to give her a dollhouse, it’s to build one with her. Teach her how to read a simple diagram. Use her tiny hands to hold the pieces in place while I guide her through sanding, gluing, painting. I want her to see that she can create something beautiful from a pile of nothing.
“Well,” I say, walking over to her. “how about we build something small first? Like a tiny table for your dolls?”
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
“Really,” I say, kneeling beside her. “You draw it, and I’ll help you build it.”
Her eyes go wide, and she turns her paper toward me. “I already did!”
I laugh, because of course she did.
I take the drawing from her and study the wild shapes and colorful lines.
“You’ve got an eye for design, Hannah Banana.”
“Why just one eye, Daddy?” she blurts out. "I have two eyes for design!"
I laugh again. A laugh that echoes in the large space, filling not only the air, but my heart with joy.
“That’s right,” I say, standing and offering her my hand. “Two eyes are better than one. Now, let’s go pick out some scrap wood and get started.”
She jumps up like I just offered her the moon. Her excitement makes me realize that sharing a love of building with her is the best gift I could imagine giving.
And she’s five—the perfect age to start dreaming with her hands.
Chapter 21
Danielle
