Matthew
I watch Sarah delicately sand the wood. My lips curled into a small smile. This girl has never had to work with her hands in her entire life, and I can tell that from watching her.
But she's trying. That's what gets me. She's holding the sandpaper awkwardly, her movements slow and careful, like she's afraid she'll ruin the crib if she presses too hard.
I lean against the workbench, arms crossed, watching her struggle for a moment longer before finally stepping in. "Here," I say, reaching for her hand. "You've gotta hold it like this."
Sarah looks up at me, her brows furrowed. "I am holding it like that."
I smirk. "No, you're holding it like you think it's about to bite you." I take her hand gently, adjusting her grip. "Use firm, even strokes. Let the sandpaper do the work."
She huffs but follows my guidance, trying again. It's still not perfect, but at least she's not treating it like fragile glass anymore.
