Chapter 15 - The Fence
For the next four hours, Clinton worked alongside Thomas in the brisk autumn air, measuring, sawing, and hammering the old wooden fence panels in the backyard of 442 Oakridge Lane.
I watched them from the kitchen window, sipping my chamomile tea.
Clinton wasn't used to physical labor. By noon, his hands were blistered, his flannel shirt was covered in sawdust, and sweat was dripping down his forehead. But he didn't complain once. When Thomas offered him a break, Clinton just wiped his brow, took a gulp of water, and went back to work.
Inside the house, Stephanie and I were preparing lunch together.
"He’s changing, Mom," Stephanie said, chopping celery for a pot of vegetable soup with steady, practiced movements. "Really changing. He spends more time with Mason now than he ever did when we lived in that big house."
"Hard work has a way of clearing the mind, Stephanie," I observed, stirring the pot on the stove. "It strips away all the noise and leaves you with what actually matters."
"I know," she murmured, resting her head briefly against my shoulder. "Thank you. For not giving up on us. Even when we deserved it."
"I didn't give up on you," I replied softly. "I just stopped enabling your delusions."
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At 1:00 PM, we all sat down at the dining room table together for the first time in months. There was no filet mignon, no imported cheese, and no expensive wine. Just hot vegetable soup, crusty bread, and honest conversation.
For the first time since Donald died, the house felt entirely whole.
