The Woodshop

Nathan wasn’t sure why he agreed to come. He wasn’t a woodshop guy. Never had been. But Caleb had invited him, and he didn’t have a good reason to say no.

The shop smelled like sawdust and oil, the kind of scent that lingered in clothes long after you left. Nathan hovered near the door, hands in his pockets, watching Caleb move around like he belonged there.

“You just gonna stand there, or you gonna help?” Caleb shot him a look over his shoulder.

Nathan smirked but didn’t move. “Not really my thing.”

Caleb raised a brow, picking up a rough-cut slab of oak. “Sanding wood’s too big a stretch for you?”

“I don’t know.” Nathan shifted, glancing at the workbench. “Just never did much of it.”

Caleb grabbed a rough plank, running his fingers over the grain. “Nothing to it. You just sand down the rough edges ‘til you get something smooth. Wanna give it a shot?”

Nathan hesitated—then stepped up. Took it—pressed it to the wood. First strokes were clumsy—grit catching awkward under his hand. He wasn’t sure he was doing it right—kept his eyes down.

“My dad had a shop like this,” he said, voice slipping out quiet, almost lost in the scrape. “Used to sit on a stool in the corner—watch him work.”

Caleb nodded—steady, listening. “He let you lend a hand?”

Nathan let out a short laugh—sharp, no warmth. “Nah.”

Caleb glanced up—caught the edge in it. “How come?”

Nathan shrugged—kept sanding. “Didn’t trust me with his tools, I guess.” A beat—wood dust curling under his fingers. “Or maybe I wasn’t the son he figured on.”

Caleb set down his sander, dusting off his hands. “What kind of son was that?”

Nathan exhaled—eyes locked on the plank. “The kind who’d rather be in the kitchen with Mom than out here with him.” He laughed again—soft, thin—didn’t reach his eyes. “My brother got the ‘man stuff.’ Me? I got… I don’t know. Told I was different.”

Caleb watched him—quiet for a stretch—then nodded at the wood in Nathan’s hands. “You know what makes oak tough?”

Nathan looked up—caught Caleb’s steady gaze. “What?”

“The grain.” Caleb ran his fingers along the plank’s surface. “It’s not straight and clean. It twists, knots up in places, even looks weak sometimes. But that’s what gives it strength. It holds.” He tapped the wood. “This is solid. Even with the knots.”

Nathan stared at the grain beneath his fingertips, something catching in his chest that he wasn’t ready to name.

“You’re not weak, brother,” Caleb said, quieter now. “Just because you weren’t a copy of your dad or your brother doesn’t mean you weren’t meant to stand strong. Maybe your grain’s just different.”

Nathan swallowed, looking down. The wood dusted away beneath his hands, the surface smoothing. But some knots stayed, no matter how much he worked at them.

Maybe that was alright.