And eventually, after two inspections and a stack of paperwork as thick as a cookbook, our garage passed.
The first morning I turned my own ovens back on, it was five a.m. and still dark outside. I stood there listening to them hum to life, breathing in the smell of warm metal and butter and yeast, and I cried a little. I’m not ashamed of it.
When I turned around, Irvin was standing in the doorway in his robe, holding two cups of coffee.
He handed me one without a word. We stood there together and watched the sun come up over the street.
Irvin changed after all of it. He stopped being the neighborhood’s handyman by default. He still helps people. That’s who he is, and I’d never want him to stop. But he learned something hard that summer: that having no romantic interest in someone isn’t enough when that person keeps testing your marriage. Boundaries have to be visible. They can’t just be assumed.
