Some things are heavier than they look.
Glass shower doors, for example.
Or history you’ve spent your whole life trying not to trip over.
The past three days, my dad and I have been attempting to install these ridiculously designed doors on the bathtub. If you’ve never tried it, just imagine solving a jigsaw puzzle while the pieces actively fight back. Now add tools, swear words, and a slight suspicion that the instruction manual was translated from another language by someone who’s never seen a shower before.
It’s been a full-blown project. And it’s tested our patience, fine motor skills, and ability to hold back smart-ass remarks.
But here’s the weird part:
He hasn’t yelled.
He hasn’t huffed.
He hasn’t made me feel like I’m a disappointment with a screwdriver.
And that? That’s new.
I’ve spent most of my life holding my breath around tools and tension, waiting for a sharp word or a slammed cabinet door. I used to think that was just how he operated—that I was always doing it wrong, asking dumb questions, slowing him down. So I stayed out of the way. I stopped trying to help. I convinced myself it was safer that way.
But for the past three days, we’ve been side by side, wrestling with aluminum and tempered glass like it’s the final boss in a video game. No blowups. No blame. Just two people trying to get the damn thing level.
To him, it’s just a home improvement project.
To me, it’s something else entirely.
Maybe this is what healing looks like sometimes—not a hug, not a heart-to-heart, but the absence of harm where you used to expect it. A gap in the cycle. A pause in the pattern. A moment where you’re allowed to just exist next to each other without fear of being wrong.
We weren’t just building shower doors.
We were building peace.
And for the first time, it held.
Until next time,
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