Page 17 of Storytime and Sawdust

"That's the point," Molly says, her smile unwavering. "Children respond to whimsy. It makes reading an adventure rather than an assignment."

Harold circles the structure, peering critically at the reading pods nestled in the branches. "I'm concerned about durability. All these nooks and crannies will be difficult to clean."

"Every component is removable for maintenance," I explain, keeping my voice even. "And the finishes are all commercial grade, designed for high-traffic environments."

"What about safety?" another board member asks. "There are a lot of climbing opportunities here."

"The structure's been designed with safety as the top priority," Molly answers before I can. "No sharp edges, all climbing surfaces are atappropriate heights with cushioned areas beneath, and the sightlines allow staff to monitor without hovering."

I watch her defend our creation with fierce pride, handling each question with knowledge and grace. This is her element: championing what children need in a world of adult practicality.

"It's certainly not what I expected," Harold says, running a finger along one of the carved branches. "I was thinking of something more... conventional. More practical."

"Practical how?" Margaret asks.

Harold gestures vaguely. "Standard shelving. Maybe some colorful seating. Something that maximizes the space for actual books rather than all this... theatrical scenery."

A familiar weight settles in my chest—the doubt that's haunted me since inheriting Grandpa's business, whispering I'm not building what people truly need.

"This isn't scenery," Molly counters firmly but kindly. "It's an environment for exploration. That's what reading is...especially for children."

"I understand the concept," Harold dismisses with a wave. "But was all this custom work necessary when commercial options exist?"

The other board member nods. "It's significantly over budget."

"It's not over budget," Margaret says. "It's exactly what we agreed on. Yes, it cost more than something purchased out of a catalog. But worth every penny. An investment that will draw families for years."

The discussion continues, but I'm seeing through Harold's eyes—impractical, excessive. A woodworker's indulgence rather than a library fixture.

Maybe he's right. Perhaps I got carried away, too caught in Molly's enthusiasm and my desire to honor Grandpa's legacy.

"Cal?" Molly interrupts. "Show them the fairy doors?"

All eyes turn to me expectantly. "Sure."

I retrieve the box from the table, removing five themed doors: an open book, a tiny cottage, and a miniature of the library's entrance.

"These will be installed around the tree base," I explain, my voice sounding distant. "Each has a compartment for books or displays."

"Children can change what's inside," Molly adds excitedly. "Makes them co-creators, not just visitors."

As board members examine them, Margaret studies the cottage door. "Extraordinary craftsmanship."

Harold barely glances before setting one down. "Seems excessive for something children will break within a month."

His comment stings. "They're designed to last generations," I say flatly. "Commercial grade hardware."

"I'm sure they're well-made," Harold shrugs. "But do children really need these gimmicks?"

"They're invitations to engage meaningfully," Molly counters sharply.

Harold raises his hands. "Just questioning expenditures."

The board generally approves the project. As they leave, Margaret squeezes my arm. "Don't mind Harold. The reading nook is magnificent. Your grandfather would be proud."

I nod silently. When everyone's gone, Molly turns to me. "That went mostly well. Are you okay?"

"Fine," I say. "Let's install these doors."

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