Preston looked at the small piece of steel and admitted that he had never understood how much patience and effort went into creating something with his hands. He apologized for insulting me, excluding me from the wedding, and treating my profession as something embarrassing. He also told me about his mother, Francis, who had spent four years restoring the family’s old tobacco barn. She had worked with splinters, blisters, and paint covering her clothes. Preston remembered once being embarrassed by her dirty hands. She had laughed and told him, “That’s what love looks like, baby. It doesn’t wash off.”

That afternoon, my sister Sydney arrived at the workshop. She had discovered fourteen photographs of herself beneath our father’s dogwood tree, which I had kept as inspiration for the arch. She finally understood why every flower mattered. With tears in her eyes, she admitted that she had allowed other people’s opinions to become more important than her own brother. She apologized for hurting me and asked whether I would still attend her wedding. I looked at her for a long moment before quietly agreeing.