Chapter 6 - The Table We Build
One year later.
It was a warm, golden October evening in Chicago.
The roof deck of my West Loop loft had been transformed into a lush garden oasis filled with potted cedar trees, blooming autumn chrysanthemums, and soft string lights hanging from the iron pergola.
In the center of the deck stood a massive, custom-built maple dining table—the first major piece of furniture I had designed and built entirely by myself under the Lane & Thorne mark.
Sitting around the table were eight people: Thomas Thorne and his wife, Denise Foster, my senior restoration team from the workshop, and Marcus and Theo—the two movers who had helped me clear out my old life fourteen months ago, and whom I had since hired as our primary logistics managers for historic timber transports.
Laughter echoed over the rooftop as platters of roasted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, fresh sourdough bread, and rich autumn wine were passed around the table.
I stood at the head of the table, holding a glass of sparkling cider, looking at the faces of the people gathered around me.
"A toast!" Thomas Thorne announced, raising his glass high. "To the master builder who knows that a real home isn't something you inherit—it's something you carve with your own two hands!"
"To Claire!" everyone cheered, clinking their glasses together under the golden glow of the patio lights.
As the dinner continued, I stepped away from the table for a moment, walking over to the cedar railing at the edge of the roof deck, looking out over the twinkling skyline of Chicago.
My cell phone buzzed in my apron pocket.
I pulled it out.
It was a text message from an unknown number. Attached was a photo.
I opened the image. It showed a small, cramped apartment kitchen in Elgin. Sitting at a plastic folding table was my mother, looking tired and gray, holding a paper plate with a small piece of store-bought chicken. Across from her sat my father, his hair entirely white, staring blankly at his phone.
Below the photo was a text from Brooke:
UNKNOWN: Mom asked if you were coming for Thanksgiving. She said there's still a place for you if you want to come home.
I looked at the photo for a long moment.
Two years ago, that message would have sent a sharp, agonizing stab of guilt through my chest. It would have made me jump into my car, drive through the rain, bring groceries, write a check, and spend three hours trying to buy a smile from a mother who only saw me as a bill payer.
Now, looking at the photo, I felt only a calm, quiet stillness—like looking at an old photograph of a town I used to live in a very long time ago.
I didn't type a furious reply. I didn't send a list of grievances.
I simply typed four words:
CLAIRE: I am already home.
I deleted the thread, blocked the number, and dropped the phone back into my pocket.
I turned back toward the golden light of the dining table.
Marcus was telling a hilarious story about transporting a twenty-foot timber beam through downtown traffic, Denise was laughing so hard she was wiping tears from her eyes, and Thomas was cutting a large, warm slice of apple cobbler, setting it down on a plate.
I walked over, pulled out my chair at the head of the table, and sat down among the people who loved me for who I was—not for what I could pay for.
Thomas smiled, sliding the plate across the maple timber toward me.
"Here you go, Claire," Thomas said softly, his eyes warm with genuine affection. "The first slice is yours."
May you like
I looked down at the plate, then looked up at the warm, shining faces of my real family surrounding me.
I picked up my fork, smiled, and took a bite.
