“That wasn’t fair to Cole, Nathan.”
Nathan nodded, ashamed.
“I know. I’m sorry. But, Mom, there’s something I want you to see.”
He brought me into the workshop. A wooden rocking chair stood beneath the window, and recognition hit me immediately. Michael had begun building it before Nathan’s birth, imagining himself rocking our baby to sleep. He’d never completed it.
Now its missing seat had been installed and the rough wood carefully sanded smooth. My fingers moved over one armrest.
“You really did this?”
Nathan nodded.
“Cole helped. Grandpa taught us.”
I remembered Michael joking that he’d made one of the legs too short.
“Your dad would’ve loved seeing this.”
Nathan searched my expression.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about it?”
I had no answer. Frank spoke from the doorway instead.
“There’s something else Nathan hasn’t told you, Laura.”
***
Frank had found a smaller place to live and planned to sell the family house because maintaining it alone had become too difficult. He’d told Nathan in August.
“That’s why we started coming every weekend,” Nathan said. “Grandpa’s moving in a few weeks.”
I looked at Michael’s handmade furniture, the shelves, and the tools scattered around the workshop.
“You’ve been trying to save all this?”
Nathan nodded.
“I thought if we worked fast enough, we could finish everything before Grandpa moved.”
“We don’t have room for an entire workshop.”
I saw his face close off.
“Of course we don’t, Mom. Of course.”
“Nathan, I didn’t mean…”
“You just got here, Mom. You don’t get to show up now and pretend you were part of this.”
I wanted to explain my grief, but tried another approach.
“What matters most to you? We can bring some things home.”
He glanced helplessly around the room.
“I can’t choose.”
“Then we won’t decide today.”
Nathan walked out. When Frank moved to follow, I gently stopped him.
“Give him a minute.”
***
Denise phoned that evening.
“Cole’s upset. He shouldn’t have had to choose between Nathan and telling me the truth.”
“You’re right. I’ll talk to Nathan.”
Afterward, I knocked on my son’s bedroom door.
“Can we talk?”
He was sitting on his bed.
“If it’s another lecture, I’m tired.”
“It’s about Cole.”
He stared at the floor.
“I know. I shouldn’t have made him lie.”
“You owe him an apology. And no sleepovers until we’ve rebuilt some trust.”
“I understand.”
I sat down beside him.
