I got the ladder out of the garage this spring before the sky turned gray. My knees clicked on every step up to that maple branch. The birdhouse was already hanging there like always. Cedar, clean edges, same spot as the last ten.

I brought it down slow and set it in the grass. My hands felt cold even though it wasn’t. I turned it over right there on the ground.

Harold made birdhouses in the shop out back for years. He had that one dovetail notch he cut into every piece. Said it was his mark. I used to watch him from the kitchen window while he worked.

After he died the birdhouses kept coming. First day of spring, always before dawn. I asked the neighbors more than once. They all said the same thing. “Haven’t seen a soul out there, Margaret.” I set my alarm for three in the morning twice. Walked the yard with a flashlight. Nothing.

The first few years the backs stayed plain. Smooth wood, no marks. I figured it was one of Harold’s friends from the club keeping the habit going. It felt like a kindness.

Then the years stacked up. Eleven now. I stopped setting the alarm after a while. Just watched from the window and wondered.

Harold used to have our son Michael out there with him on weekends. Michael was twelve, maybe thirteen. Harold showed him how to measure and how to notch without splitting the grain. Michael got good at it fast. They talked more in that shop than anywhere else.

One summer they stopped talking. Michael was eighteen by then. They had a fight about college and the shop and what counted as a real job. Harold raised his voice. Michael slammed the door.

He left two days later with a duffel bag and didn’t come back for the funeral.

I called Michael a few times after that. He answered once. “I’m busy right now, Mom,” he said. That was it.

The birdhouses still showed up. Every spring. I started leaving a note on the tree one year. Just said thank you. It was gone the next morning. No answer.

This spring I told myself I was done wondering. I took the ladder out while it was still dark. Climbed up and lifted the birdhouse off the branch before any light hit the yard.

I sat down in the grass with it in my lap. The dew soaked through my jeans. I turned it over and there was the notch. Small, clean, the same cut Harold always used. My chest went tight.

Under the notch were letters carved shallow and straight. I had to put my glasses on to read them in the half-light.

It said “Dad showed me this so I’d always have a way to say I’m sorry. Love, Michael.”