The old nails fought her. One snapped. Another buried itself in her glove but missed skin. She pried off the last rotten board and saw daylight through the frame. For a moment, she felt like a fraud—this was Tom’s job, not hers.
She marked on her calendar for next weekend: install remaining three walls. Reward: buy flowers for the window box.
She held the first new sheet against the wall. It was unwieldy, wanting to tip, wanting to win. She used a scrap 2x4 to lever it into place, checked it with a level (slightly off—adjusted), then drove the first nail through the groove where the next sheet would hide it.
Each hit felt like a small declaration.