Chapter 7
Winter thawed slowly.
Snow melted into gray slush.
The porch steps appeared again.
The shed looked smaller in daylight.
Still, I avoided the backyard.
Dad noticed.
Of course he did.
One Saturday morning, he stood in the kitchen with two mugs of coffee.
Mine mostly milk.
“You want to take the shed down?”
I froze.
“What?”
“The shed. We can tear it down.”
I looked out the window.
The old wooden door hung crooked.
Snow damage.
Or maybe Dad damage from opening it so fast.
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
He didn’t push.
That made the choice easier.
Two days later, I said, “Can we paint it instead?”
Dad blinked.
“The shed?”
“Yeah.”
“What color?”
“Yellow.”
He smiled slowly.
“Your mom’s favorite.”
I nodded.
So we painted the shed yellow.
Maya came to help.
So did Dad’s friend Mr. Lewis.
Even my history teacher, Mrs. Clark, stopped by with lemonade because Maya apparently told half the town and called it “community care.”
At first, I hated people being there.
Then I didn’t.
The shed changed under our hands.
Dark wood became sunlight.
Inside, Dad cleared out the tools and old bags.
We scrubbed the floor.
Added a small rug.
A lamp.
A shelf.
A chair.
I put Mom’s old gardening books there.
Dad said, “What is it now?”
I looked around.
“A place.”
“What kind?”
“Mine.”
He nodded.
“Then it’s yours.”
Not a punishment place.
Not a freezing place.
Mine.
That spring, I started spending time there after school.
Reading.
Drawing.
Sometimes just sitting with the door open.
The air smelled like paint and grass.
Not fear.
The divorce dragged on.
Brenda fought over money.
Then furniture.
Then Dad’s retirement account.
She never once asked for visitation with me.
Not once.
I pretended that didn’t hurt.
Therapy called me out.
Of course.
Dr. Porter said, “It can hurt even when you don’t want the person back.”
I hated that she was right.
Dad said, “I’m glad she’s not asking.”
“I know.”
“But it still feels like being rejected again.”
He looked at me.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“I know. I am anyway.”
We were both learning apologies without pressure.
When the divorce finalized, Dad took me out for pancakes.
Not a celebration, exactly.
More like a breath.
He looked exhausted.
Free.
Sad.
All at once.
“Do you miss her?” I asked.
He answered honestly.
“I miss who I thought she was.”
That made sense.
I missed that version too.
The one who helped me choose a homecoming dress.
The one who made cinnamon rolls once and let me lick frosting from the spoon.
The one who disappeared when Dad wasn’t watching.
Maybe she had never been real.
Maybe she had been partly real.
That was harder.
Summer came.
I turned eighteen.
Dad threw a backyard party.
Porch light on.
Yellow shed glowing in the corner.
Mom’s quilt spread over the picnic table.
Maya made a toast.
“To Nia, who survived senior year, snow, and my driving.”
Everyone laughed.
May you like
Dad cried.
I pretended not to notice.
