Chapter 4 - The Ascent
By the time winter rolled around again, my life looked entirely different. The “Reed Restoration” makeshift workshop in our apartment’s rented garage had expanded. I had finally bought that electric sander, along with professional saws and finishing supplies. Word of mouth spread through the city like wildfire; people appreciated the care and personal touch I put into every reclaimed table, chair, and dresser.
I had moved Emma into a safer apartment across town—one with large windows that let in golden afternoon sunlight and a small park right across the street where she could play safely.
My mother tried to call me twice that autumn, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Hannah, sweetheart, it’s been so long. Brooke is planning her wedding shower, and we’d love for you and Emma to—"
I hung up before she could finish the sentence. I didn't block her number; I just let it ring into the void, perfectly indifferent. Their world of petty social hierarchies and superficial status symbols felt like a distant, black-and-white television show I had long since stopped watching.
Kyle tried to reach out once, too, sending a text message asking how things were going, likely fishing for sympathy or testing the waters after his new relationship in Florida inevitably soured. I deleted the message without reading past the second sentence. My bank account balance was healthy, my daughter was laughing every day, and my business was thriving. I had no room in my life for ghosts.
In November, I signed a lease on a small, brick-walled commercial storefront downtown. It had high ceilings, large display windows, and enough space for both a workshop in the back and a showroom in the front.
On opening night, local artists, boutique owners, and neighborhood families filled the room, sipping sparkling cider and admiring the rows of beautifully restored antique furniture. Clara stood beside me, raising a glass of cider.
“To Hannah,” she toasted loudly. “A woman who built a kingdom out of discarded wood.”
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Emma, now six and a half, beamed up at me with absolute pride. “You’re the strongest mommy in the whole world,” she whispered.
I knelt down, hugging her tightly, knowing that the cold, snowy night from eight years ago was fading into a distant memory, replaced by the warmth of our own making.
