Chapter 5 - The Foundation Holds
The four-hour drive back to Ohio was quiet, save for the low hum of the heater and the soft, rhythmic patter of sleet hitting the windshield.
My phone buzzed continuously on the passenger seat—twenty-seven missed calls from Dad, fourteen frantic text messages from Bryce, and three long, pleading voice messages from Mom explaining that "family always comes first" and begging me to call them back.
I didn't answer a single one.
When I pulled into the driveway of my downtown loft just past midnight, the city lights were twinkling across the skyline, reflecting off the steel and glass towers I had helped design and inspect.
I parked my old Ford F-250, stepped out into the cold night air, and reached into my coat pocket. My fingers wrapped around Grandpa Walter’s brass level. I pulled it out and set it flat against the top rail of the truck’s tailgate.
The bubble rested dead center between the two black marker lines. Perfectly level. Perfectly balanced.
My phone buzzed one last time. It was a text from Cousin Nia:
May you like
“They are all completely freaking out. Uncle Franklin is pouring himself bourbon in the kitchen and staring at the cedar box like it’s a bomb. Happy holidays, boss.”
I smiled, slipping the level back into my pocket, and walked toward the lobby doors. Let them worry about the weight. I had built my life on solid ground, and nothing they said or did could ever shake it again.
