or a forgotten drawer.
Yet I continued trying.
I believed that someday I’d make something special enough to earn his genuine appreciation.
After his birthday, Mom invited me to Sunday dinner.
I said I was busy.
The next time, I blamed work.
Eventually, her invitations became occasional texts.
Trent called once.
Dad never contacted me.
Six weeks later, Mom arrived at my apartment with a homemade chicken-and-rice casserole.
She asked whether I was sick or dealing with some kind of problem.
I nearly told her about the chess set.
But I could already imagine her defending Dad.
So I explained that my woodworking orders had increased.
She hugged me and left, apparently satisfied.
What Mom didn’t know was that I’d recently visited Grandpa Silas’s old cabin. →
It sat on twenty acres of heavily wooded Tennessee land, a place I had always considered sacred. When Grandpa Silas was alive, we’d spend
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