“I’m here.”
I didn’t want a plain construction shop. I wanted something that felt like him, but also felt like me. My dad built with his hands. I built in my head first. I loved drafting, clean lines, and the quiet satisfaction of a plan that actually made sense.
So I made the workshop both.
The front half became a small design studio. I bought a used drafting table, set up my laptop, and pinned up floor plans on corkboard. The back half stayed exactly what it was meant to be: saws, shelves, lumber, and room to build.
I built in my head first.
When I ordered my first sign, I stared at the proof for a long time before I approved it.
“Ray’s Builds.”
I didn’t have to explain the name — people knew… people remembered him.
Work came slow at first, then it started rolling in.
One afternoon, I called one of my dad’s old guys. A carpenter named Mike who had worked with him for years.
I didn’t have to explain the name…
“Ellie?” he answered on the second ring.
“Hi, Uncle Mike.”
There was a pause, and then his voice softened.
“I’m glad you called. How are you holding up?”
“I’m… trying,” I admitted. “I opened the shop.”
“You reopened Ray’s shop?”
“How are you holding up?”
“I leased it,” I said. “And I’m running it. But I need people who knew him. People who cared about the work.”
“You want me to come by?” Mike asked.
“Yes, if you can,” I said quickly. “And I want you to help me take over. I can’t do this alone.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow,” he said. “And Ellie?”
“Yes?”
“You’re doing right by him, doll.”
“I can’t do this alone.”
Three months later, Cheryl showed up.
She pulled into the gravel lot like she still belonged. Her roots were a mess, and her heels clicked like a warning.
I stepped outside and shut the workshop door behind me.
“Can I help you?”
“I heard about the business,” she said. “And your… house.”
“I didn’t think you kept up with town gossip.”
Three months later, Cheryl showed up.
Her smile looked strained.
“Things have changed. I thought maybe we could talk, Eleanor.”
“I’m busy,” I said.
