Her family lives just across town, a twenty-minute drive that I made every single Saturday morning like clockwork, thinking I was building bridges when really I was just laying down a welcome mat for people to walk all over me.
I was raised by parents who believed that family meant everything. You pitch in, you help where you can, and you never, ever keep score.
My dad spent countless weekends helping his siblings move, fix their cars, repair their homes. He did it with a smile and never expected anything in return. That mindset, that deeply ingrained belief in the sanctity of family obligation, is exactly how I ended up being the unpaid handyman, mechanic, and landscaper for my in-laws for over five years.
Every Saturday morning, my alarm would go off at seven. I’d roll out of bed while Claire slept in, grab a quick breakfast, load my tools into the truck, and head over to Jim and Carol’s place. The routine never varied. Mow the lawn, trim the hedges, edge the driveway. Check the gutters, fix whatever needed fixing—leaky faucets, broken steps, loose boards on the deck, squeaky hinges, cracked tiles. You name it, I fixed it.
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