But Harvey was patient.
He adjusted my hours to accommodate school and made certain I completed the required training properly.
On graduation day, I scanned the bleachers looking for familiar faces.
Dad wasn’t there.
Neither was Justin.
Caitlin had an exam.
Alexis had told me she couldn’t get a ride.
Then I saw Mom.
She was sitting alone near the top row wearing her blue library cardigan.
When she spotted me, she waved with both hands.
I smiled.
For a moment, I nearly cried.
She didn’t come down afterward.
I learned later that she’d told Dad she needed to work a Saturday shift.
That hurt.
But I also understood what it had cost her to come.
The apprenticeship was difficult.
I earned fourteen dollars an hour at first.
I paid rent.
Bought my own groceries.
Saved for tools.
And attended classes after work.
Some evenings, I was so tired I fell asleep with a textbook open beside me.
Harvey didn’t lower his expectations.
If I made a mistake, he explained what was wrong and made me correct it.
If I asked a question, he answered.
And if I complained that a job seemed too difficult, he’d say something that eventually became my favorite sentence.
“Well, now you know one way it doesn’t work.”
The company was small.
Harvey.
A quiet electrician named Kirby.
A part-time office manager named Arla.
And me.
Kirby spoke so little that I sometimes wondered whether he’d forgotten my name.
But he was an excellent electrician.
He taught me to read plans carefully, keep materials organized, and never rush through work that needed precision.
Harvey taught me how to talk to customers.
How to estimate costs.
How to recognize when a job needed additional expertise.
And how to be honest when something took longer than expected.
Arla taught me the business side.
Invoices.
Scheduling.
Payroll.
Purchase orders.
And why a company could appear busy while still struggling financially.
I listened to all of them.
Then, during my second apprenticeship year, my truck’s transmission failed on a cold stretch of Highway 6.
The repair estimate was twenty-four hundred dollars.
I had six hundred twelve dollars in savings.
For a moment, I considered calling Dad.
Then I remembered his last words.
“When you come back asking for help, we can talk about engineering.”
I couldn’t do it.
That evening, Mom called.
It was the first time we’d spoken directly in months.
She’d heard about the truck through Caitlin.
“Sweetheart, are you all right?”
I sat on my cot.
“I’m fine.”
She hesitated.
“Do you need help?”
Before I could answer, I heard Dad in the background.
“Is that Nolan?”
Mom said yes.
Then Dad spoke loudly enough for me to hear.
“Tell him the university still accepts transfer applications.”
For a moment, I stared toward the window.
Then I whispered.
“Tell him I’m fine.”
I ended the call.
The following morning, Harvey was waiting in his van.
“Get in.”
I looked at him.
“Where are we going?”
“Grinnell job.”
“My truck’s still at the repair shop.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
For the next four months, Harvey drove me to work.
Every morning.
Sometimes before sunrise.
Through rain.
Through freezing wind.
Through mornings when the roads were covered in frost.
He never made me feel ashamed.
He never reminded me how inconvenient it was.
When I tried thanking him, he’d turn up the radio.
Eventually, I saved enough to repair the transmission.
The first morning I drove the Tacoma back into the lot, Harvey stepped outside.
He looked at the truck.
Then nodded.
“Well, I guess I can sleep a little later.”
I laughed.
He didn’t sleep later.
Habit had already taken over.
That summer, I began sending Mom cards.
I addressed them to the public library where she worked because I didn’t want Dad opening them first.
Birthday cards.
Christmas cards.
Mother’s Day cards.
Sometimes I wrote only a few lines.
I told her about the jobs we were doing.
The classes I was taking.
And the little things that made me happy.
Every year, on my birthday, a card arrived at the shop.
Mom’s handwriting.
A message saying she was proud of me.
No money.
No pressure to return.
Just love.
I kept every one.
The years passed.
I completed my apprenticeship.
Qualified as a journeyman electrician.
And continued building experience under Harvey and Kirby.
When I passed the exam, Harvey took me to a steakhouse in Des Moines.
He ordered the largest steak on the menu.
Then raised his coffee cup.
“To Nolan.”
Kirby nodded.
“Good job.”
From Kirby, that was practically a speech.
Later, I continued my education and gained the additional experience required to qualify for a master electrician’s license.
I was twenty-four when I completed that step.
Harvey celebrated by handing me a new fine-tip marker.
I looked at it.
Then laughed.
“That’s my present?”
He grinned.
“You’re going to need it.”
By then, Harvey was approaching seventy.
His knees bothered him.
He’d begun talking about retirement.
One evening, he asked me to stay after closing.
We sat in his office with two cups of coffee that had been sitting on the warmer too long.
He opened a folder.
Inside were the company’s financial statements.
Equipment inventory.
Customer records.
And a proposed sale agreement.
I stared.