Mr.Brightside

Chapter 43

Jack's First Commission

The sunlight filtered through the garage windows, casting warm streaks of light on the tools and pieces of wood scattered across my workspace. Today was the day. The day I would officially start working on my first commissioned piece. The email from the interior designer had arrived over a week ago, and after some back-and-forth on dimensions, design, and materials, I was ready to dive in.

I could feel the weight of it—this project represented more than just a table. It was a step forward, the beginning of something bigger than myself, and I was determined to get it right. I ran my hands over the rough slab of oak I had chosen, envisioning the final piece in my mind. It was going to be a large, rustic dining table—clean lines with a natural, earthy feel. Something timeless.

The Fear Creeps In

As I began marking the wood, the reality of what I was doing settled in. This wasn't just a hobby anymore; it was a business. A client was trusting me to create something for them. The responsibility weighed heavy on my shoulders. What if it didn't turn out the way they imagined? What if I wasn't as good as I thought I was?

I shook my head, trying to push those thoughts away, but they lingered, gnawing at the edges of my confidence. I knew I could do this—I had built plenty of pieces before—but this time it was different. This was for someone else, and it had to be perfect.

I grabbed my pencil, measuring tape, and squared the edges of the oak slab. The familiar rhythm of preparation calmed me, grounding me in the task at hand. I had always found peace in the process—cutting, sanding, shaping the wood. It was as if everything else faded away, and it was just me and the materials in front of me.

Clara's Encouragement

Later that afternoon, Clara came into the garage, carrying two mugs of coffee. She handed one to me, her eyes scanning the workspace, taking in the half-finished table legs and the sketch I had pinned to the wall. I saw the way she smiled—proud, curious.

"How's it going?" she asked, sipping her coffee.

"Good," I said, though the knot of anxiety still sat in my chest. "It's just... a lot of pressure, you know? It has to be perfect."

She set her mug down on the workbench and looked at me, her eyes filled with that steady warmth that I loved so much. "Jack, it's already amazing. I've seen what you can do, and I know this table is going to turn out beautifully. Don't doubt yourself."

I exhaled, the tension loosening a little. Clara had a way of calming me down, of making things feel more manageable. I leaned back against the bench, grateful for her presence.

"It's just... I haven't done this professionally before. What if they don't like it?"

She stepped closer, placing her hand on my arm. "They're going to love it. You're putting your heart into this, and that's what matters. You have the talent. You just need to trust yourself."

I smiled at her, feeling the tension ease a little more. "Thanks. I needed to hear that."

She kissed my cheek, her hand lingering on my shoulder. "You've got this, Jack. And I'm here if you need anything."

With that, she left me to my work, and I felt a renewed sense of focus. Clara's belief in me was a steadying force, and I knew she was right. I just had to trust the process, trust myself.

The Process

The next few days were a blur of sawdust, wood glue, and careful measurements. I carved the legs by hand, making sure each one was identical, smooth, and strong. I sanded the tabletop meticulously, working the grain until it felt like silk under my fingertips. Each cut, each stroke of sandpaper brought the table closer to life.

There was something meditative about it—the repetition, the precision. It was a far cry from the corporate meetings and endless spreadsheets I had left behind. This was real. This was something I could touch, something I could be proud of.

As the table began to take shape, I felt a deep sense of accomplishment. I could see it now—the finished piece standing proudly in someone's home, a place where meals would be shared, memories would be made. It was more than just furniture; it was part of someone's life, their home. And I had created it.

A Turning Point

One evening, as I was putting the finishing touches on the table, Olivia wandered into the garage, her wide eyes curious as always. She climbed onto a stool next to me, watching as I sanded the edges of the tabletop.

"Whatcha doing, Daddy?" she asked, her voice full of wonder.

"I'm making a table, sweetie," I said, smiling down at her. "It's almost done."

Her little hands reached out to touch the smooth wood, and she looked up at me, her face serious. "It's really pretty."

"Thanks, kiddo." I ruffled her hair, feeling a surge of pride. If Olivia thought it was pretty, then I was doing something right.

She watched me for a while longer, her small fingers tracing the lines in the wood. "Can I help?"

I chuckled. "Maybe when you're a little older. But I'll let you help me pick the finish, okay?"

She nodded enthusiastically, and I couldn't help but smile at her excitement. It reminded me of why I was doing this—why I had taken the leap to follow my passion. It wasn't just about building a business. It was about showing Olivia, and myself, that it was okay to chase your dreams, to create something with your own two hands, and to be proud of it.

The Finish Line

A week later, the table was complete. I stood back and admired it, the dark, rich stain highlighting the grain of the oak, the sturdy legs holding it all together. It was simple, elegant, and exactly what I had envisioned.

Clara came into the garage, her eyes widening as she saw the finished piece. "Jack, it's beautiful."

I smiled, feeling a swell of pride. "Thanks. It's ready for delivery."

She ran her hand over the tabletop, her fingers tracing the grain. "They're going to love it."

I hoped she was right. There was still a part of me that was nervous about handing it over, about seeing the client's reaction. But as I loaded the table into the truck the next morning, I felt a sense of accomplishment that I hadn't felt in a long time. This was my work, my craft, and I was proud of it.

As I drove to the client's home, the sun rising in the sky, I realized that this was just the beginning. The first of many projects, many challenges, and many moments of doubt. But it didn't matter, because I was finally doing what I loved.

And that was enough.

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1138 words