Chapter 8 - The Reconstruction
Over the next three days, while my parents recovered in the hospital, I went to work.
I didn't use my ordinary car or my ordinary clothes anymore. I brought in two of my top corporate managers from Columbus, alongside a team of private contractors, a specialized estate lawyer, and a professional cleaning crew.
We stripped the cold, soulless gray furniture out of the house.
I searched the attic and found the old wooden furniture Greg had stashed away to sell at auction—Dad’s favorite armchair, Mom’s antique oak dining table, and the hand-carved rocking chair my grandfather had built.
We brought it all back down into the living room.
I hired a crew to rip up the water-damaged floor in the pantry, seal the old root cellar permanently with concrete, and install a brand-new, modern central heating system throughout the entire house.
On Christmas Eve morning, I visited Doña Maria’s bakery in town.
When the elderly woman saw me step through her door, she burst into tears, wrapping her apron-covered arms around my neck, kissing both of my cheeks.
“God bless you, Shawn!” she cried. “I baked the cinnamon bread! I baked three loaves for your sweet mother!”
I carried the warm, fresh bread back to the house, where the aroma of cinnamon, roasted pine, and woodsmoke filled the warm air.
In the corner of the living room stood a fresh, eight-foot real balsam fir tree.
I had spent four hours in the attic digging through old cardboard boxes until I found them—the wooden angels we had carved as children, the paper snowflakes faded with age, and the cracked glass star Dad had refused to replace.
May you like
I placed the glass star on the top branch myself.
At four o'clock that afternoon, my private van pulled up to the hospital entrance to bring my parents home.
