Chapter 10 - Always With the Grain
Later that afternoon, I invited Dale Peton and Deputy Miller over to the house for a warm holiday dinner.
They sat at the dining room table—the exact same table where my parents had tried to humiliate me a year ago—sharing roasted turkey, laughter, and stories about Grandpa Roy.
“You know, Amber,” Dale said, raising his glass of sparkling cider toward me, “your grandfather talked about you every single time he came into the bank. He was so damn proud of the person you were, even when you didn't see it yourself.”
“He knew what he was doing,” Deputy Miller added, smiling warmly. “He laid the foundation so deep that no storm could ever wash it away.”
After dinner, as the snow began to fall heavier outside and the warm amber lights of the Christmas tree cast a cozy glow across the living room, I walked over to the front door.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the heavy brass key marked Front — 1971, and turned it in the deadbolt just to hear the solid, satisfying click of a secure lock.
I walked back to the kitchen, picked up a block of smooth pine from the workshop shelf, and ran my sandpaper across its surface.
May you like
Always with the grain.
The wood was smooth, balanced, and strong. Just like me.
