I gut the guest bathroom first.
Tub out. Tile up. I Home Depot the shit out of the place—tools spread everywhere, radio blasting classic rock, my hands doing what my head can’t yet. It’s familiar. Comfortable.
I refinish cabinets. Replace hinges. Re-caulk windows. Fix the steps out back that always wobbled.
My mom watches from the doorway sometimes, quiet, like she doesn’t want to scare the moment away.
“You don’t have to do all this,” she says once. “Again.”
“I know,” I answer. “I want to.”
At night, my muscles ache the good way. The honest way.
For the first time in months, I sleep without waiting for the sound of keys.
I don’t know if it’s really over.
But I know this:
I’m still here.
I’m halfway up the family room wall when my mother’s friends arrive.
Tile spacers between my fingers. Level pressed against the marble. The radio’s low—Springsteen humming through the house like it always has. I’ve already pulled the old plaster out, cleaned the wall, measured twice. This part is almost meditative. I’m installing a custom made marble hearth for a new wood stove and then adding a mantel.
Press.
Set.
Check.
“Ethan,” Mrs. Donnelly says from the doorway, awe in her voice, “would you look at that.”
I glance over my shoulder. Three of them stand there—coffee cups in hand, coats still on—taking in the kitchen like it’s a magazine spread.
“He did the bathroom too,” my mother says, proud but trying not to sound like it. “All of it.”
“No,” another one says. “You hired someone.”
I smile without turning around. “Nope.”
They shake their heads like they’re seeing a magic trick. One of them mutters something aboutmen these daysandwhere did you learn that.
I don’t answer.
I press another tile into place, wiping excess grout with my thumb, feeling the satisfying resistance as it locks in.
This makes sense to me.
Not the compliments.
Not the admiration.
The work.
Somewhere between champagne flutes and linen napkins, I forgot that I came from meat and potatoes. From casseroles and coffee brewed too strong. From hands that earned their keep andhomes that stayed standing because someone cared enough to fix what broke.
Sage loved the polish.
