Michael's POV
I had twenty-seven dollars in my wallet and six days until rent was due. The math wasn't working, no matter how many times I ran the numbers in my head. Even with Sarah's two jobs and my overtime at the factory, we were drowning. Three months behind on the hospital bills. The final notice from the electric company glaring at me from the kitchen counter. And Olivia growing so fast she was already outgrowing the secondhand clothes we'd scraped together for her.
Standing in our cramped kitchen at 5 AM, I sipped bitter coffee and watched the sun rise through our grimy window. Olivia was still asleep in her crib, and Sarah had collapsed into bed just two hours ago after her late shift at the grocery store. The dark circles under her eyes had become permanent fixtures, like bruises that wouldn't heal.
This couldn't go on. Something had to give.
I pulled out the business plan I'd been working on for months, spread the wrinkled pages across our wobbly kitchen table. Custom furniture. That was my ticket out of this endless cycle of factory work and barely making ends meet. I'd always been good with my hands, could look at a piece of wood and see what it wanted to become. My father had taught me carpentry before the cancer took him, and those skills had been gathering dust while I assembled car parts on an assembly line.
All I needed was a small loan for tools and materials. Just enough to get started.
The bank had laughed me out of their office last week. No collateral, bad credit score thanks to the medical bills, no business experience. The loan officer hadn't even bothered to look at my designs, just slid my folder back across his desk with a practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes.
But today would be different. Today I had an appointment with James Wilson, a local businessman who ran a small venture capital firm. He invested in startups, in people with dreams bigger than their bank accounts. I'd heard about him from a guy at work who'd gotten funding for his brother's food truck business.
"He takes risks on people other investors won't touch," my coworker had said, scribbling Wilson's number on a scrap of paper. "But he's tough. Wants to see fire in your eyes."
Fire. I had fire all right. The desperate, consuming kind that comes from watching your wife work herself to exhaustion while you struggle to keep the lights on. The kind that burns in your gut when you think about the daughter you gave away because you couldn't afford to keep her.
I tucked my business plan into a folder, pulled on the only dress shirt I owned, and straightened the tie I'd borrowed from our neighbor. In the bedroom, I kissed Sarah's forehead, careful not to wake her. Her skin was pale, almost gray in the early morning light.
"I'm going to fix this," I whispered, though she couldn't hear me. "I promise."
In Olivia's room, really just the corner of our bedroom we'd partitioned off with a secondhand screen, I leaned over her crib. At six months old, she was already showing hints of Sarah's features: the same delicate nose, the same stubborn chin. I wondered if Emma looked the same, if the Phillips saw Sarah in her face too.
"I'm doing this for you," I murmured, gently touching Olivia's soft cheek. "For both of you."
Mrs. Delgado would be up to watch Olivia in an hour. Sarah would sleep until noon, then head straight to the diner for her shift. If all went well, I'd be back before she left, maybe with good news that would change everything.
The bus was crowded with morning commuters, people with steady jobs and predictable paychecks. I clutched my folder like a lifeline, rehearsing my pitch in my head as buildings flashed by outside the window. By the time I reached downtown, my palms were sweating and my mouth was dry.
Wilson's office was in a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and steel beams. Modern art hung on the walls, strange splashes of color that probably cost more than our yearly rent. The receptionist looked up from her sleek computer as I approached, her smile professional but distant.
"Michael Reynolds to see Mr. Wilson," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
She checked her screen. "You're early. He's finishing up another meeting. Have a seat."
I perched on the edge of a leather sofa that probably cost more than my car, flipping through my folder one last time. The designs were good, I knew they were good. Functional furniture with clean lines and unexpected details. Coffee tables with hidden compartments. Bookshelves that curved like waves. Dining chairs that were as comfortable as they were beautiful.
My father would have been proud of these designs. "Wood speaks," he used to tell me. "Our job is just to listen."
The door to Wilson's office opened, and a man in an expensive suit walked out, laughing about something with the man who followed him. James Wilson was younger than I'd expected, maybe early forties, with slick hair and the kind of tan you get from sailing, not from working outdoors.
"Michael Reynolds?" he called, checking his watch. "You're early. I like that."
I stood, wiping my palm on my pants before extending my hand. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Wilson."
His handshake was firm, his eyes assessing. "James, please. Come on in."
His office was as impressive as the lobby, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a desk made from a single slab of walnut, shelves lined with books and small sculptures. But what caught my eye was the chair he sat in, a beautiful piece with curved arms and a back that seemed to flow like water.
"You like it?" he asked, noticing my gaze. "Custom made. Cost me a fortune, but worth every penny. Nothing better than something made by human hands specifically for you."
I nodded, seizing the opening. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Custom furniture."
For the next fifteen minutes, I laid out my plan. Starting small, commissioned pieces for individual clients, then gradually expanding to a line that could be sold in boutique stores. I showed him my designs, explained my experience, and outlined the modest sum I needed to get started.
Wilson listened without interrupting, occasionally making notes on a legal pad. His face revealed nothing, no interest, no dismissal, nothing to indicate whether I was wasting my time.
When I finished, he leaned back in his beautiful chair and tapped his pen against his notepad. "Why furniture, Michael? Why not something with faster returns?"
"Because I understand wood," I said simply. "I know how to make things that last."
"And why should I invest in you? What makes you different from the dozens of other craftsmen looking for funding?"
I hesitated, weighing how honest to be. In the end, desperation won out over pride. "Because I have more to lose than most. I have a six-month-old daughter. A wife working two jobs. And…" I swallowed hard. "And we had to give up our other daughter because we couldn't afford to raise twins."
Something flickered in Wilson's eyes; surprise, maybe, or interest. "Twins? You split them up?"
I nodded, shame burning in my throat. "We thought we were giving both of them their best chance. One with us, one with a family that could provide everything we couldn't." The words tasted bitter. "But we're still drowning. And I can't… I won't… let it stay this way."
Wilson was quiet for a long moment, studying me. Then he stood abruptly. "Come with me."
Confused, I followed him out of his office and down a hallway to a large room set up as a workshop. Tools hung neatly on walls, and in the center was a half-finished table, the wood gleaming under bright lights.
"My hobby," Wilson explained, running his hand over the smooth surface. "My father was a carpenter. Taught me everything he knew before he died."
I stared at him, the strange coincidence making my heart race. "Mine too."
Wilson nodded, as if this confirmed something. "Show me what you can do."
Without hesitation, I picked up a chisel, tested its weight in my hand. The wood was walnut, like his desk, rich and warm. I studied the grain, the natural flow of the material, then began to work on an unfinished edge, creating a subtle detail that complemented what he'd already done.
My hands remembered everything my father had taught me. For a few minutes, I forgot about rent and bills and the constant gnawing anxiety. There was just the wood, the tools, and the shape emerging beneath my fingers.
When I stepped back, Wilson examined my work, his expression still unreadable. Then he nodded once, decisively. "Let's talk numbers."
Back in his office, we worked out terms that made my head swim. Not just a loan, but an investment. He would provide the startup capital, space in a workshop he owned but rarely used, and connections to potential clients. In return, he would take a percentage of the profits until his investment was repaid, then a smaller stake going forward.
"I'm not a charity," he said as I stared at the contract he'd drafted. "I expect this to make money. But I believe in backing talent, and you've got that. Plus..." He hesitated. "Your story about the twins. My sister and I were adopted by different families. Didn't find each other until we were adults. So maybe I'm a little soft on this particular issue."
I could hardly believe what was happening. An hour ago, I'd been a factory worker with a pipe dream. Now I was signing a contract that could change everything.
"I'll need you to start right away," Wilson said, already typing something on his computer. "I have a client who's been looking for exactly the kind of work you do. If you impress him, there will be more."
"I can start today," I said eagerly. "Right now."
Wilson smiled, the first genuine one I'd seen from him. "I was hoping you'd say that." He wrote something on a check and slid it across the desk. "First installment. Get whatever tools and materials you need. The address for the workshop is there too. Be there tomorrow, 8 AM sharp."
I stared at the check, at the number of zeros that would clear all our overdue bills with enough left over to give us breathing room for the first time since the twins were born.
"I won't let you down," I promised, carefully tucking the check into my wallet where my twenty-seven dollars now seemed laughably inadequate.
"See that you don't," Wilson replied, already turning back to his computer. "I hate being wrong about people."
I floated out of his office, hardly feeling the ground beneath my feet. Outside, the city seemed brighter somehow, full of possibilities that hadn't existed this morning. I skipped the bus and walked to the bank, savoring each step of this new reality.
The bank manager who had rejected my loan application just a week ago now smiled obsequiously as he processed Wilson's check, offering me coffee and asking about "my business." I kept my answers brief, still wary of his sudden interest, and withdrew enough cash to pay our most pressing bills.
Next stop was the hardware store, where I purchased the essential tools I'd need. Not everything, I would be careful with Wilson's money, but enough to start work immediately. The weight of the bags in my hands felt like promise, like future.
I should have gone straight to the workshop, started preparing for tomorrow. But I couldn't wait to tell Sarah. To see her face when I handed her the receipt for the electric bill, paid in full. To tell her that things were finally going to change.
I caught the bus home, clutching my purchases and checking my watch. Almost 2 PM. Sarah would be waking up soon, getting ready for her shift at the diner. If I hurried, I could catch her before she left.
The familiar streets of our neighborhood looked different somehow. Less oppressive. Even our run-down apartment building seemed more like a temporary stopping place than a prison. As I bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time, I felt lighter than I had in months.
"Sarah?" I called as I burst through the door. "Sarah, you won't believe…"
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. No sounds of Sarah getting ready, no Olivia babbling in her playpen. For a moment, panic seized me, had something happened? Had they left?
"Sarah?" I called again, moving through the small living room. The bathroom door was closed, a thin line of light visible underneath. "Sarah, are you in there?"
No answer.
I rapped my knuckles against the door. "Sarah? Everything okay?"
Nothing.
A cold dread settled in my stomach as I tried the handle. Locked. "Sarah!" I called louder, jiggling the knob. "Sarah, open the door!"
When there was still no response, I stepped back and slammed my shoulder against the door. It gave way on the second try, the cheap lock breaking easily.
Sarah was on the floor, crumpled like a discarded doll. Her skin was ashen, her lips pale. For one horrible moment, I thought she was dead. Then I saw the slight rise and fall of her chest.
"Sarah!" I dropped to my knees beside her, my hands hovering, afraid to touch her, afraid to make things worse. "Sarah, baby, wake up. Please wake up."
Her eyelids fluttered but didn't open. A small moan escaped her lips.
Where was Olivia? The question hit me with fresh panic. I scrambled up, rushing to check the bedroom. Mrs. Delgado must have taken her downstairs when she couldn't wake Sarah, I realized with relief as I found the crib empty.
Back in the bathroom, I gently lifted Sarah, cradling her against my chest. She felt lighter than I remembered, all angles and sharp edges where there used to be softness. Her head lolled against my shoulder as I carried her to our bed.
"Sarah, can you hear me?" I brushed damp hair from her forehead, noting with alarm how hot her skin felt. "I'm going to call an ambulance, okay?"
Her eyes opened slightly at that, focusing on me with effort. "No," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "No hospital. Can't... afford..."
Even now, even collapsed on the bathroom floor, her first thought was of our finances. The irony wasn't lost on me, the check that could solve those problems was still in my wallet, and here she was, refusing medical care because of money.
"It's okay," I told her, reaching for my phone. "Everything's going to be okay. I got the investment, Sarah. We can afford it now."
But she had already slipped back into unconsciousness, her breathing shallow but steady. As I dialed 911, my eyes fell on the pill bottle on our bedside table. Prescription sleeping pills from months ago, when Sarah couldn't sleep after Emma's adoption. The bottle was nearly empty.
Fear clutched at my throat as I gave our address to the dispatcher. Had she taken them deliberately? Or had exhaustion and stress pushed her to seek any kind of rest she could find?
As I waited for the ambulance, holding Sarah's limp hand in mine, the check in my wallet seemed to burn against my leg. Help that had come too late. Money that couldn't buy back the months of grinding poverty that had worn Sarah down to this fragile shell.
The business card Wilson had given me was in my other pocket. The workshop would be waiting tomorrow. The client with his commission. The beginning of everything I'd hoped for. But none of it mattered if Sarah wasn't beside me to share it.
"Don't leave me," I whispered against her hand, tears blurring my vision. "Please don't leave me. I can't do this alone."
Outside, sirens wailed, coming closer. Help was on the way. But as I looked at Sarah's pale face against our shabby pillowcase, I wondered if any amount of money or opportunity could repair what these months had broken in her. In us.
The check that was supposed to change everything suddenly felt meaningless in the face of what might already be lost.