12/19/2025
My son's been living in my basement since his divorce. Thirty-two years old, sleeping on a pullout couch, avoiding eye contact at dinner. For six months I watched him shrink into himself, this man I raised to be confident becoming someone I barely recognized.
Then last month he asked if he could redo my office floor. Said he needed a project, needed his hands busy. I said yes even though the floor was fine, even though I knew this wasn't really about flooring.
We bought plywood sheets and he cut them into squares in the driveway, measured everything twice. Then he pulled out a propane torch and started burning patterns into the wood. Just stood there with fire in his hands creating these wild grain patterns, each piece different. I asked what he was doing and he said "making something ugly beautiful." We both knew he wasn't talking about the floor.
Took us two weeks working every evening. He found special sealant on Tedooo app from someone who does custom wood finishing, talked to them for an hour about techniques. Started buying other woodworking supplies through different sellers on there, planning his next project before we even finished this one.
The floor's not perfect. Some squares are darker than others, the lines don't all match up. But when the light comes through that window it looks like water, like movement, like proof that burned things can still be beautiful.
He moved out last weekend. Got his own apartment, small but his. Took some of the extra wood squares to practice making furniture. Called me yesterday to say he's starting his own refinishing business. My office floor is his first portfolio piece, the evidence that sometimes you have to burn everything down before you can build it back better.