Michael’s chair says, “You have my chin, but your mother’s kind heart.” Emma’s chair, made of a beautiful slab of cherry wood, says, “You laugh exactly like your grandmother, never lose that sound.” Leo and Lucas, our unexpected twins, have matching oak chairs.

Leo’s says, “You were always the quiet one, but still waters run deep.” Lucas’s says, “You came into this world fighting, keep that fire.” I have guarded this secret closely.

It brings me a quiet, profound joy to sit at family gatherings, watching my grandchildren rock back and forth on my handiwork, completely unaware of the love letters hiding just inches beneath them. But life has a way of interrupting our most cherished routines. My youngest daughter, Sarah, has had a very difficult path.

She and her husband have been trying to have a second child for over four years. I have watched her go through the physical and emotional wringer of fertility treatments, the silent heartbreak of miscarriages, and the forced smiles at other people’s baby showers. As a father, there is nothing more agonizing than watching your child suffer and knowing there is absolutely nothing you can build, fix, or repair to make it better.

While Sarah was silently fighting her battles, I was quietly fighting my own. About a year ago, I started noticing a slight tremor in my right hand. At first, I blamed it on the cold weather, or too much coffee, or just the natural wear and tear of being seventy-two years old.

But the tremor didn’t go away. It slowly crept into my left hand, too. I started dropping tools. My handwriting became jagged and unrecognizable. I went to a neurologist in the city. After months of tests, cold examining rooms, and serious conversations, I was diagnosed with a degenerative neurological condition.

The doctor explained that my motor functions would continue to decline. The timeline was uncertain, but the conclusion was not. My hands, the very tools I had used to support my family and build my legacy, were failing me. My days in the workshop were strictly numbered.

I didn’t tell my kids. They all had so much on their plates, especially Sarah with her heartbreaking struggles. I couldn’t bear to be another source of grief for them. Instead, I went into overdrive in my workshop. I spent hours out there every single day, pushing through the frustration of my shaking hands.

I decided that if I only had a limited amount of time left where my hands were steady enough to operate heavy machinery safely, I had to prepare. I knew Sarah desperately wanted another baby. I believed with all my heart that it would happen for her eventually.

But I also knew that by the time her miracle baby finally arrived, I would likely not have the physical capability to build a chair from scratch. I couldn’t bear the thought of her second child being the only grandchild without one.