She had walked off into the dark street with nothing left in her hands, having lost both Rob’s fortune and her family.

I felt no urge to yell after her or send some insult down the gravel road.

She had spent ten years chasing things that shone in store windows, and now she had to live with whatever was left.

I laid my palm flat on the back of the maple chair and leaned my full weight down on it.

The clamped leg didn’t bend or give a fraction of an inch against the bench top.

“This one’s going to hold up just fine,” I said to the quiet room.

I took a strip of hundred-grit sandpaper from the wooden shelf above my tools.

Mark was staying in college, and the kids were safe beneath the roof we had built.

Some things are simply made to last.

I stood quietly in my workshop, watching the warm light from the kitchen window spill across my tools.

I lifted my right hand and brushed a thin film of pale oak sawdust off my thumb.