The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual that day. I got up once to make some coffee but let it go cold in the cup. Every time I looked at the birdhouse I heard Michael’s voice again. “The birdhouses felt easier than a phone call.” I almost picked up the phone to call him back right then.

But I didn’t. “Give him time,” I told myself. “He’s the one who has to make the next move this time.”

The notch felt deeper than I remembered Harold’s notches being. Maybe Michael pressed harder on purpose so it would last. I pressed my own thumb into it and wondered if that was his way of saying he still remembered everything. By afternoon the sun had moved and the letters didn’t show as clear. I left the birdhouse right there on the table anyway. It stayed there through dinner and into the evening. Some nights I still wonder if I should have asked him more questions while I had him on the line. But the words on the back were enough for now.

The carving on the back said it plain as day. “Dad showed me this so I’d always have a way to say I’m sorry. Love, Michael.”