I ignored that one too.
By Sunday evening the messages became sharper and more demanding.
“So you’re really going to leave them there with broken things all week?”
“They need your help, Nathan.”
“This is childish.”
I ignored every single one of them.
Monday morning the tension inside our house was heavy. Claire moved through the kitchen with angry movements, slamming cabinet doors and setting her coffee mug down harder than necessary. On Tuesday she barely spoke to me at all. Wednesday was even worse, filled with cold silence and dramatic sighs.
Then Thursday arrived.
I was sitting in a quiet café downtown, halfway through lunch with someone I never expected to be having a meeting with—Mark Stevenson, Claire’s boss. We were discussing a possible consulting opportunity. He knew several small business owners who needed someone dependable to maintain equipment and handle minor repairs, and he believed I would be perfect for the job.
Suddenly my phone vibrated in my pocket.
