« That’s not my problem, » I said.
Emily sighed as if she were talking to a stubborn child.
« You’ve always been sensitive. »
My jaw clenched.
« Exactly. I’m the problem, Josh. »
She sighed again, patient, accustomed.
« What are you punishing them for? Because they didn’t brag about their side hustle. »
« It’s not a small job on the side, » I said dryly. A successful company. I employ people. I pay taxes. I have loyal customers. I… »
« You’re building things, Josh, » she interrupted. « It’s great. Oh, really. But they belong to a different generation. You can’t expect them to understand everything. »
There you go. Rejection. Condescension. As if my life was just a charming little parenthesis far from the real world. Like I’m the eccentric uncle who shows up on Thanksgiving with weird gifts and stories no one listens to.
I ended the call without saying goodbye.
After that, I avoided all family gatherings. If someone had a baby, I would send a card. If someone graduated, I would send a gift. But I didn’t go. Not out of bitterness, but because I couldn’t bear the idea of being in front of people who considered me a mere figure of their perfect existence.
But in a way, my silence only made them louder.
They started saying that I was depressed, that I was going through a bad patch, that I was struggling to find my way. My mother even confided to a mutual friend that I had been laid off and that I was managing to get back on my feet. It was as if they couldn’t conceive of me being okay without their approval. If I didn’t attend their events, if I didn’t play the role of the perfect son, then I was bound to be in trouble, in failure, lost.
But I wasn’t.
I had never been so successful. My business was going strong. I had hired a second full-time employee and was starting to take orders from out-of-state customers. A design blog even highlighted one of my creations in an article on the « 10 craftsmen to follow ». I wasn’t just surviving: I was building.
But all this was of no importance to them, because it was not their conception of success.
Then came the straw that broke the camel’s back.
I received a letter in the mail. Not a call, not an email: a real letter on thick cardstock, handwritten in my mother’s hand. I almost didn’t open it. I would have been better off not doing it.
Inside, an invitation to renew my sister’s vows. She and her husband, Mr. Last Jaw, were hosting a lavish and expensive new wedding ceremony for their tenth wedding anniversary. Destination: a full weekend. Evening wear optional.
And at the very bottom, in delicate gold letters, was a sentence that made me nauseous:
Please respect the couple’s wish to organise a child-free event for service providers only. Family members participating in a professional capacity are requested to report to the staff upon arrival.
Work capacity.
I read it three times without even blinking. There was no mistake. It was deliberate.I was not invited as a brother. I was invited as a staff member.
I turned the card over. A little note was slipped into the envelope.
« Josh, Emily would be delighted if you could bring some décor for the reception. Something rustic, elegant, in your style. She says that it would make her very happy. Tell us what you need in terms of materials or delivery. »
No excuses. No recognition. Just a guess that I’d be so flattered to be included — even in a minor role — that I’d take the opportunity.
That’s when something changed in me. Before, I was hurt, disappointed, maybe even embarrassed. But now… Now it was over.
And for the first time in years, I felt calm.
I had no intention of building anything for this wedding. But I wanted to offer them something. Something unavoidable. Something unexpected. But to achieve this, I would have to be patient and wait for the perfect moment.
The word about the renewal of vows has been on my workbench for days. I didn’t even touch it, leaving it there, under a layer of sawdust, slightly deformed by a coffee stain that I hadn’t bothered to wipe off. Every time I looked at him, I felt a strange mixture of disbelief and lucidity, as if I was finally seeing something that had always been there. It was as if someone had turned on the light in a room where I had slept all my life.
It’s crazy what happens when the last thread breaks. For so long, I walked that tightrope, trying to show maturity, to prove myself without overdoing it, to find a version of myself that my parents could accept. Not like. Just accept.
But as soon as I read this invitation, I understood a brutal thing. I could win a design award, open ten stores, raise a million dollars with a single piece of work, and I would still be presented as the one who works with my hands. Because they needed me to be less important. They needed a contrast to show off by comparison.
So I dropped the discussion.
I cancelled everything for a week. Without public announcement or drama. I simply told my clients that I needed a short break for a personal project, then closed the door of the shop and turned off my phone. I cut myself off from the world, in my bubble.
And I collapsed.
A collapse that does not seem dramatic in the eyes of everyone, but which, inside, is like an earthquake. I couldn’t sleep, I ate anything, I was a prisoner of memories over and over again. Me, as a child, showing my mother a wobbly birdhouse I had built in fifth grade, and she said, « Well, maybe you’ll be better at math. » Me, trying to hug my dad after winning a local art contest at 16, and him giving me a dry pat on the shoulder like I was a stranger who had spilled something on his shirt.
I had so many little cuts. I had ignored them for years, convincing myself that they were not serious, but now I was bleeding profusely all of a sudden.
One night, I found myself sitting in my truck, in the dark, in front of the store, right there. I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I remember clutching the steering wheel and thinking, « Maybe I’ll drive until the tank is empty. »
But I didn’t.
I went out, went in, locked the door behind me, and sat on the floor in the workshop for what felt like hours. No music, no phone: just me, the smell of wood chips and the sound of my breathing.
I wish I could say that there was a click, a moment when I suddenly stood up and knew what I had to do. But it wasn’t like that. It was slower, gentler, like a tide rising up to your ankles without you even noticing.
It all started with a piece of wood: a large black walnut board that I was treasured for a special project. I caressed the grain and felt a little spark inside me, like a flame under the ashes. I didn’t know what I was going to create, but I knew I had to create something. Not for a client, not for Instagram, not for anyone else: just for me.
I worked all night. Without a plan, without sketches, just movement. I sculpted, sanded, cut, burned, polished. I let the work become what it wanted to be. Something abstract. Something raw. At sunrise, I had a sculpture that was unlike anything I’d done before. It was not symmetrical. It was not practical. But it made sense. It looked like me.
I looked at him for a long time and realized something.
I wasn’t broken.
I was just trying to fit into the wrong setting.
That was the beginning.
The next few weeks were quiet, but something had changed in me. I started to get up earlier and have a real breakfast instead of coffee from the supermarket. I reopened the shop and announced to my employees that I would temporarily put customer projects on hold. I needed space to create something different. They understood.
I went back to the basics, I spent hours studying joints and techniques that I hadn’t seen since I started. I pulled out books, watched old videos, handled tools I hadn’t used in years. It was not a question of perfection, but of rediscovery.
So I imposed a rule on myself. Every day, I had to create an object that would never be sold. A spoon, a box, a carved panel, a sculpture – something that existed simply to exist. It was like therapy. I haven’t told anyone about it. Neither to my friends, nor even to the other craftsmen with whom I collaborated from time to time. It was too personal, too sacred. But every time I finished something, I felt like I was putting a part of myself back together.
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