Then, I started fixing myself.
I didn’t feel like I was winning.
The day I signed the lease for my dad’s old workshop, I stood in the empty space and cried for ten minutes.
It still smelled like motor oil and pine, like the walls had absorbed him. There were pencil marks on the studs where he used to write measurements, and one crooked nail in the back corner that I remembered him swearing at when I was ten.
“Okay, Dad,” I said, wiping my face. “I’m here.”
Then I got to work.
“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.”
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