Chapter 11: The Meeting on the Terrace
Margaret stopped three paces away. ""Hello, Mark.""
Mark turned around. When he looked at his mother, his eyes filled with tears, but his gaze remained steady and clear.
""Hello, Mom,"" Mark replied softly.
They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the rhythmic crash of the waves against the seawall below and the cheerful music drifting from the ballroom inside.
Mark reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, velvet-lined wooden box. He stepped forward and placed it gently in his mother’s hands.
Margaret opened the lid.
Inside lay a hand-carved jewelry box made of curly white oak, its surface polished to a glass-smooth luster using natural beeswax. On the lid, inlaid with walnut wood, was a delicate, hand-cut laurel wreath surrounding the letters *PVG*.
""I spent six months working on the joinery in the evenings after the mill closed,"" Mark said, his voice thick with quiet emotion. ""The wood came from the oak tree Dad planted behind the old shop in 1980.""
Margaret ran her fingertips across the smooth, flawless dovetail joints. She felt the precise, loving labor in every curve of the grain.
She looked up at her son, seeing the man her husband had always believed he could become.
""Your father’s joinery was never quite this clean, Mark,"" Margaret whispered, a single tear escaping her eye and tracking down her cheek.
Mark stepped forward, his lips trembling, and wrapped his strong, calloused arms around his mother’s shoulders, burying his face in her hair.
""I love you, Mom,"" Mark sobbed quietly. ""I'm so sorry.""
Margaret held her son tight against her heart, feeling the steady, honest beat of his chest against hers.
May you like
""I know, my son,"" Margaret whispered back. ""Welcome home.""
---
