“If you walk out that door, don’t ever come back,” Dad said. I looked around the table, smiled, and said, “You’ll regret saying that long before I do.” Three years later, Mom was crying on my porch.

I don’t know where things go from here with Dad.

He hasn’t called.

Maybe he will.

Maybe he won’t.

My mom has been coming to the house about twice a month now.

She and Mara garden together.

It’s small, but it’s real.

The company’s doing well.

We broke $6 million last year.

Bobby’s my right hand.

The crew is solid.

I finally got around to updating the letterhead.

Just one name.

Mine.

I don’t hate my dad.

I don’t hate Wade.

But I learned something important sitting in that shop bay 3 years ago, holding a binder full of proof that I own what I’d built.

Love doesn’t mean letting people take from you.

Family doesn’t mean silent sacrifice.

And sometimes the door someone tells you never to walk through is the same door that leads you exactly where you need to be.

I walked through it, and I never looked back.

Well, maybe once when Mom showed up with the lemon bars, but I figure that’s allowed.

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