dinners.
I took a different path.
I was the quiet younger son who loved working with wood.
Grandpa Silas taught me to handle a chisel when I was twelve.
Even after I received an award for my craftsmanship at the state fair, Dad barely acknowledged it.
By twenty-five, people were paying hundreds of dollars for my custom chessboards.
But whenever I showed Dad pictures of my work, he’d smile briefly before asking Trent about another construction job.
Dad wasn’t openly cruel.
He simply acted as though my accomplishments didn’t matter.
That was what hurt most.
At Sunday dinners, I’d listen to endless conversations about building permits, roofing materials, and new contracts.
I rarely had anything to add.
Eventually, nobody even noticed my silence.
Over the years, I’d made Dad wooden picture frames, decorative storage boxes, and a handcrafted coat rack.
The gifts always seemed to disappear into the basement, garage,
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