Ira shifted the tools in his  box, sorting the pliers by length and putting the wrenches in order by size.

“Hey, Dad, what are you doing?” His daughter settled into a chair beside him and leaned over the table.

“Just getting organized,” he said.

“I had an idea for you,” Cheryl said. She pulled a big box onto the table and lifted the lid. “Justin got this but he’s never finished it. I thought you might like to give it a try.”

Cheryl pulled the framework for a dollhouse from the box and set it on the table. Then she lifted assorted pieces and parts. “Would you like to build this dollhouse?”

“Sure,” Ira said. “I can do that.” He’d rebuilt engines and problem-solved his way through a a balky hay swather. He’d kept all his machines running for his whole life. He’d done most of the finish work on their new home he’d put up years ago. A dollhouse was no problem.

But his hands trembled as he picked up the tiny pieces. Where was this rod supposed to go? Were there pieces for the roof? He saw the instruction sheet but the words just swam before his eyes.

He pushed a wooden block against round edge. It looked like trim but it didn’t fit right.

And where was this flat piece of wood supposed to go? On the roof? On the front step? Was there a front step?

Ira pushed the pieces away from him. He saw his tools in the box, neatly ordered. He closed the lid of the toolbox. “Take this to Justin. I can’t do this anymore. I’m so sorry.”

Cheryl hugged him. “I’m sorry, too, Dad. I thought you’d enjoy this but it’s not important.”

He cried that day. So did Cheryl.

Some chapters close hard.