“I’m an accountant. My last successful woodworking project was a birdhouse that leaned.”
“You were nine.”
“It still leaned.”
Dad did not smile.
“The letter says Ruiz Brothers Workshop.”
“That was Granddad’s idea.”
“What’s yours?”
Nobody had asked me that.
I looked around the kitchen.
Mom was sewing a loose button onto Dad’s shirt.
Veronica had brought pastries from the bakery.
Derek waited quietly.
And I realized the inheritance question had always been wrong.
I did not want half of a workshop.
I wanted a reason to stop living like my family existed mainly through phone calls and bank transfers.
“I could handle the business side,” I said.
Derek blinked.
“What?”
“Books. Contracts. Pricing. Tax planning.”
“You hate furniture.”
“I hate sanding.”
“Everybody hates sanding.”
Dad nodded solemnly.
“That is true.”
I continued.
“You’re good at restoration. Dad knows design. I know numbers.”
Mom looked up.
“And Veronica knows clients.”
Veronica nearly dropped her coffee.
“What?”
Mom shrugged.
“You sold six restored chairs to those hotel people after they rejected Derek’s first quote.”
Derek looked at his wife.
“That is also true.”
Veronica smiled uncertainly.
“So what are we saying?”
Dad looked around the table.
