Our first open evening filled the shop with ordinary work. A teacher printed student poems. A restaurant owner approved new menus beside the press. Upstairs tenants used the long table for a lease meeting, then stayed for coffee. Cal demonstrated the paper cutter without turning safety into theater. I moved between jobs carrying a clipboard, learning which questions belonged to me and which required someone else's expertise.

The recovered revenue funded repairs and three months of reserves. I took a salary set by the outside valuation, not whatever remained after everyone else was paid. For years, I had confused self-denial with responsible ownership, leaving a gap Drew filled with control. Paying myself transparently made the business less dependent on resentment. It also let me rent my own apartment instead of sleeping above the shop.

Near closing, an elderly customer named Mrs. Ibarra arrived with a box of church programs. She had ordered them months earlier and received nothing. Her invoice carried our name and old logo, but the payment address belonged to Drew's consulting company. The date was two weeks after the settlement. I photographed the invoice, refunded her from our account, and promised the programs by morning without asking her to navigate our dispute.

Cal found six similar orders in an email folder Drew was required to transfer. The work had been outsourced cheaply, but customers believed they were buying from us. I locked the evidence cabinet and called my attorney from beside the open door. Outside, the streetlights came on one by one. I had the deed, the name, and every shop key on my ring. For the first time, I understood that taking them back was not the same as finishing the work. That difference kept me from mistaking possession for the peace I had always wanted.