Part 2: My millionaire husband left me nothing in his will after 48 years of marriage except a note with an address — when I arrived there, what I saw made me fall to my knees.

That night, I slept in the guest bedroom.

I couldn't bear to lie on Thomas's side of our bed.

But I couldn't bear to lie on mine either.

Three days later, I stood outside a brick building on the east side of town.

A painted wooden sign above the entrance read:

THE OPEN DOOR WORKSHOP

Build Something. Belong Somewhere.

Through the windows, I could see tables covered with tools, wooden birdhouses, picture frames, and half-finished furniture.

My hands shook.

I almost turned around.

What was I doing?

I was seventy-two years old.

My husband had been dead for a month.

And I was about to meet the forty-six-year-old man he'd secretly acknowledged as his son.

Part of me wanted nothing to do with Julian.

Another part wanted to ask him every question I'd never be able to ask Thomas.

I took a breath.

Then opened the door.

The workshop smelled of sawdust and fresh varnish.