"I can do that," Mom said. "I don't want anybody making you relive this when you've worked so hard to get through it."
I sat on the edge of the workbench. "I don't hate her, Mom. I just don't want her in my life."
"Those aren't the same thing," she answered. "You don't have to hate somebody to decide you can't trust them anymore."
I looked at the walnut board, at the warm grain running through it. My mother had a way of saying the simplest truth as if she had waited for me to find my own way to it. I thanked her for calling and asked whether Dad had finished repairing the garden gate. She laughed and said he had, although it now swung so smoothly that he kept opening it just to admire his work.
Before we hung up, she told me she was proud of how I was handling everything. I told her I had not felt especially graceful and admitted that there were still nights when I was angry enough to lose sleep. She said handling something well did not mean never struggling. It meant trying not to let the struggle decide who you became.
After the call, I stayed in the storage unit for another hour. I could have returned to the apartment and spent the evening turning Sarah's messages over in my head, but I preferred to finish the cabinet door. I checked the measurements, cut the final piece, and fitted the hinges until the door moved smoothly. The work did not erase the conversation, but it gave me a reminder that difficult feelings could exist while ordinary life continued.
Over the next few days, I learned that Sarah had also contacted Mark. He told her he was sorry she was having a hard time, but he would not carry messages to me. She asked whether I was seeing anybody. He refused to answer. When he told me about the call, I thanked him and made it clear I did not need to hear every detail of what she said.
"She sounded rough," Mark admitted. "I think she's starting to understand how badly she messed up."
"Maybe," I said. "I hope she figures it out for herself. I can't be the person she uses to do that."
He nodded. We changed the subject to the upcoming weekend and a charity event he had volunteered to help organize. There would be a community workshop where people repaired old furniture for families moving into transitional housing. They needed anyone who knew how to use basic woodworking tools, and Mark thought I might enjoy it. I told him I would come as long as nobody expected me to build a dining room table in one afternoon.
The event took place in a converted warehouse with concrete floors, folding tables, and a surprising number of children running between stations. Volunteers were sanding chairs, repainting bookshelves, and sorting donated kitchen supplies. I arrived with a small toolbox and spent the first hour helping a retired carpenter stabilize a set of mismatched dining chairs. It was messy, noisy work, and I liked it immediately.