The spring that followed the fracture felt like a slow repair—seasonal, patient, and a little stubborn about showing up. A light green pushed from the creases of the lot; the basil we’d planted in a crate by the shed was thriving in a way that felt like a small miracle; Jonah wore the foreman badge with a new, shy pride that made him walk a little straighter. Momentum, when it’s earned, hums under everything like a low, sure engine.
We found an equilibrium that wasn’t complacent so much as pragmatic. The Collins rota had settled into a rhythm: two weeks on, three days home. Mateo and Jonah held the fort on the local jobs; Rosa kept an eye on quality; I managed payroll, invoicing, and a hundred little decisions that kept the machine from choking. The line-of-credit gave us breathing room;
