I came back out with the jug.
“Three of these are going down the road,” I said to Cole. Loud, over the engine.
He looked at the truck. At the pile. At me.
He’d been riding along on those deliveries since he was big enough to carry kindling. He knew exactly which three.
“Dad’s list,” he said.
“Dad’s list.”
He nodded.
He rolled the next round over to the beam.
My son had spent most of that year angry at everything that moved. At school. At me. At the dog. At the whole world, for taking his father.
But he split wood that afternoon like a grown man.
And when we traded off at four o’clock, he said, “I’ve got the lever, Mom. You stack.” Because he could see my arms were shaking. And he didn’t want to say that he could see it.
We finished the fourth cord at twenty minutes to six.
The clouds had come down low over the pines. The light was going blue.
I shut off the Honda.
The quiet came in so fast that both of us just stood there in it.
Four face cords. One in the truck bed. Three on the ground in rows.
My hands wouldn’t close all the way.
“We have to take it back now,” Cole said.
“We do.”
“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I know it,” I said. “Hook it up.”
We pulled the splitter back down the road with a cord of oak riding in the truck bed.
Dale came out of his shed wiping his hands on a rag.
He looked at the wood in the truck. I watched him do the figuring in his head. The way any man up here would.
“Got some done,” he said.
“Four cords.”
“Four.”
He looked at Cole. Then back at me.
“In one afternoon. The two of you.”
“Thank you for the use of it,” I said.
He unhooked the splitter himself and rolled it back into his shed by the tongue.
From the shed door, he called out. “Same time next week, if you want it.”
“I’ll let you know,” I said.
Cole had his hand on the door handle. I could see him getting ready to say something.
I put my hand on his arm. He stayed in the truck.
And we drove straight on down the road. Right past our own driveway. Across the creek. All the way to the very last mailbox.
Specialty: Emotional Turning Points
Rachel Monroe writes character-driven stories about betrayal, second chances, and unexpected resilience. Her work highlights the emotional side of family conflict — the silences, the misunderstandings, and the moments when someone quietly decides they’ve had enough.