Page 96 of Claiming What's Mine

Epilogue

Jayden

One year later

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“Here we go!” I yelled, swinging the sledge hammer with all my strength.

A giant hole exploded through the sheet rock, creating a window into the living room. Standing proudly for a moment, the destruction sank in, permeating through my skin. Aside from burning the fucking place to the ground entirely, renovating it was the next best thing.

It felt so fucking good. Like I was breathing new life into the home, releasing all the negativity from my father, and rebuilding the place my mother had grown up in and loved.

The idea to rebuild came from Blue. Beth and I were arguing one day about selling or keeping the property. We both wanted it to stay in the family, but neither of us wanted to live there with how it was.

There were too many horrible memories for me to ignore. Every hole in the wall, every cracked tile or broken cupboard made me relive a memory I wanted to forget. I could smell the scent of stale hops as if they had soaked into the wood floor.

My father was gone, but his presence still filled that house. I couldn't live there—I wouldn'tlive there, not like that.

Renovating was a brilliant idea. The house would stay in our family, but it wouldn't be the home that either of us associated with our father. It would be totally different, with four bedrooms, two full bathrooms, a sun room, and a huge kitchen that was open to the living room. Every last inch of that place would be new on the inside.

Beth was going to get her own place above the detached garage. We were adding a little apartment for her, a single bedroom, with everything she'd need.

Finally, after painfully waiting for months for all the permits to go through, we got the go ahead from the town to start working on our family's farm house. I couldn't wait to get started, building houses was one thing I was really good at.

When I left home at eighteen, all I had were my hands to offer. I didn't have a diploma from high school, let alone a degree from college. I didn't have any work history other than working on the farm with my father, or little odd jobs around town like sweeping, painting, and cleaning gutters.

But my hands, my hands had already seen a lifetime of work. Baring the scars of long days, the skin was cracked and calloused, giving my hands the feel of sandpaper.

Despite the rough edges, my hands were tender and delicate, able to capture butterflies and hold baby crickets without hurting them. I could hold my daughter if she was upset or got hurt, I could gently lift Greg into his wheelchair.

These were the hands that loved Blue, my woman, the girl who has owned my heart since I was twelve years old. She would beg me touch her, to caress her, to run my hands all over her body, because she loved how they felt against her skin. My hands could do so many things.

The side door flew open, creating a whoosh of wind that kicked up dust and dirt from the sheet rock. Looking over my shoulder, Bliss was charging through the doorway, her smile so big and infectious, I smiled instantly.

“I want to try that!” Bliss yelled, snatching a pair of safety glasses off the floor and slamming them onto her face. “Dad, let me do it. Can I, Dad? Can I do it?”

That will never get old. . .Smiling to myself, I just watched her for a moment, not giving her an immediate answer. I loved hearing her call me Dad. Every time the word came out, I could feel it run through my body, filling my soul.

My little girl. My daughter.

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