The sound of the wood planer was the closest thing I had to music.
It had a whine most people would find harsh, but to me it had rhythm. Pressure, release, grain, resistance. A board passed through rough and came out smooth. Uneven edges became clean lines. Warped pieces, if handled carefully, could still become something useful.
Wood was honest.
That was why I loved it.
A plank of walnut never pretended to be mahogany. Oak never apologized for being heavy. Cedar did not ask to be admired before it served its purpose. Wood carried its scars openly: knots, burns, splits, water marks, old wounds from weather and insects. You either respected the truth of the material, or it punished you.
People were harder.
For five years, my workshop outside Austin had been my sanctuary. It was a low-roofed building behind my small house, half work space, half refuge, with sawdust on the floor and Texas sun coming through dusty windows. I made tables, chairs, cabinets, rocking horses, bookshelves, and once, a cradle for a young couple who cried when they picked it up because they had tried for seven years to have a child.
They paid me in cash and homemade tamales.
That cradle meant more to me than any building I had ever designed.
Before I became a carpenter, I was an architect.
Before I became an architect, I was a husband.
Before I became a husband, I was a young man foolish enough to believe love and ambition could survive inside the same house if both were strong enough.
I had been wrong about many things.
That afternoon, I was shaping the armrest of a rocking chair from black walnut. The curve was coming in beautifully. Smooth enough for an old hand. Strong enough for a grandchild to climb over later. I had just leaned closer to check the grain when my old flip phone vibrated across the workbench.
The sound jarred me.
Not many people called that phone.
Most of my customers texted. My supplier preferred email. My neighbor Rick usually walked over and yelled through the open door.
I switched off the planer.
The sudden silence rang in my ears.
I wiped my hands on my jeans and picked up the phone.
Nathan Thorne.
Two words.
A whole life.
For twenty years, my son’s name had meant either silence or pain. We did not speak at Christmas. He did not call on birthdays. He did not ask whether I was sick, lonely, broke, dead, or alive. When he did reach out, it was usually through lawyers, assistants, or messages that felt less like communication than a door being shut again.
I stared at the screen until the buzzing stopped.
Then it began again.
I answered.
“Hello?”
The voice that came through was crisp, cold, and familiar in the worst way.
“Julian.”
Not Dad.
Never Dad.
“Nathan.”
“Your mother is gone.”
For a second, I could not place the sentence.
My mother had been gone for decades.
Then I understood.
Isabella.
The workshop blurred slightly.
“How?” I asked.
“A stroke. Last week. It was fast.”
Last week.
I leaned one hand on the workbench.
He had waited a week.
“The funeral?” I asked.
“Over.”
I closed my eyes.
“You weren’t on the list,” he said.
There it was.
Not grief.
Management.
“Then why call me?”
“Her attorney requires your presence at the reading of the will. Friday. Ten o’clock. Caldwell and Finch. Manhattan.”
“I have no reason to be there.”
Nathan laughed.
Not loudly.
Worse.
Softly.
“Oh, I know you’re not getting anything,” he said. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s a legal formality. Procedural. My mother despised you.”
I looked toward the open workshop door, where late afternoon sunlight lay across the yard.
“Then let the lawyers handle it.”
“No,” Nathan said. “I want you there.”
The silence changed.
“I want to see your face when it’s read aloud,” he continued. “I want to hear them confirm, in legal language, what everyone has known for twenty years. That you’re nothing. A zero. A footnote.”
I did not answer.
That bothered him.
Nathan had always hated silence when it belonged to someone else.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll give you fifteen dollars for the bus ride home. Think of it as your inheritance.”
The line went dead.
I stood there with the phone in my hand long after the call ended.
Sawdust floated in the sun.
The rocking chair waited unfinished.
I thought anger would come.
It did, but slowly.
Not a fire.
A coal.
The kind that glows beneath ash, patient and dangerous.
I set the phone down.
Walked into the house.
In the back of my closet, behind flannel shirts and work coats, hung a charcoal-gray suit inside a garment bag. I had not worn it in twenty years. It was the suit I wore the day my old life ended. The day I stood in a courtroom and let Isabella divorce me as if she were cutting rot from a foundation.
I unzipped the bag.
The wool smelled faintly of cedar and mothballs.
Old defeat.
I touched the sleeve.
“Fine,” I said to the empty room. “Let’s finish it.”
Friday morning, Manhattan felt like another country.
The cab from LaGuardia crawled through traffic beneath towers of glass and stone, past people who moved with the practiced urgency of those convinced time itself worked for them. I had lived near this world once. Not inside it, never fully, but close enough to understand its language.
Money does not whisper in Manhattan.
It hums.
Caldwell and Finch occupied three floors of a dark-glass building near Midtown. The lobby looked less like a workplace than a temple built for people who believed wealth should be lit from below. White marble floors. Dark mahogany walls. Abstract art no human being had ever loved. Security guards with earpieces. A reception desk wide enough to land a small plane.
My shoes clicked across the floor.
Too loudly.
I felt every step.
The suit still fit, though not the way it once had. The shoulders were a little wide, the cut dated, the trousers looser than modern fashion allowed. I had pressed it carefully in Austin, but no amount of steam could make it belong to this decade.
The receptionist looked up.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here for the reading of Isabella Montoya Thorne’s will. Julian Thorne.”
Something flickered in her eyes.
The name mattered.
The man in front of her did not match it.
“Of course,” she said after a pause. “Mr. Harrison is expecting you. Please take a seat.”
I sat on the edge of a black leather sofa that felt too expensive to be comfortable.
People glanced at me.
Classified me.
Dismissed me.
That was fine.
I had been dismissed by better people.
Then Nathan arrived.
He did not walk in so much as enter. There is a difference. Walking is movement. Entering is theater.
He wore a navy suit that fit him perfectly, a gold watch, shoes polished bright enough to reflect the ceiling lights. His hair was slicked back. His expression carried the lazy entitlement of a man who had never built anything he could not buy.
Beside him was Sophia, young, beautiful, manufactured, holding a designer purse as if it were a passport. Behind them walked Kyle Vance, Nathan’s financial advisor, tanned and white-toothed, with the alert eyes of a man always calculating the nearest exit and the next commission.
Nathan gave his name to the receptionist.
She smiled in a way she had not smiled for me.
Then he saw me.
The smile that spread over his face was not joy.
It was appetite.
“My God,” he said loudly enough for the room to hear. “You actually came.”
I looked at him.
His eyes traveled over my suit.
“I guess you really do need that fifteen dollars.”
Sophia giggled.
Kyle smiled.
Nathan gestured toward me like a man apologizing for a stain on the carpet.
“This,” he said, “is my father.”
Father sounded like an accusation.
I thought of him at ten years old on Christmas morning.
I had spent weeks building him a model battleship by hand. The USS Missouri, every cannon carved, every railing sanded, every tiny detail painted under a magnifying lamp. I had been proud in a way fathers are proud when they offer their child not just a gift but proof of their own patience.
Nathan opened it.
Looked at it.
Tossed it aside.
“It’s not a brand name,” he said. “I want what my friends have.”
Isabella bought him the newest game console that afternoon.
Not because she was cruel.
Because she was tired.
Because buying happiness was easier than teaching gratitude.
That was the mistake we made again and again, though I took longer to admit my part in it. Isabella spoiled him with money. I spoiled him with silence. Every time he behaved badly and I withdrew instead of confronting him, I helped build the man now standing over me.
Nathan waited for me to react.
I gave him nothing.
His smile tightened.
Before he could speak again, a heavy door opened.
Mr. Harrison appeared.
Tall, late sixties, gray suit, no wasted movement. He looked like a man who had buried secrets professionally for forty years and judged most of them poorly.
His eyes moved across the room.
Nathan.
Sophia.
Kyle.
Then me.
He walked toward me first.
“Mr. Thorne,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
The respect was quiet.
But in that room, it landed like thunder.
Nathan noticed.
Of course he did.
Status was the only weather he understood.
“Let’s get this over with, Harrison,” Nathan said. “I have lunch reservations.”
Mr. Harrison turned to him.
“As you wish.”
The conference room was colder than the lobby.
A long mahogany table stretched beneath recessed lights. The windows looked out not at sky but at another building, gray and blank, close enough to feel like a wall. Nathan took the seat at the far end, the seat that suggested power. Sophia sat beside him. Kyle on the other side.
I sat near the door.
An afterthought.
Mr. Harrison placed a leather-bound document on the table.
“This is the last will and testament of Isabella Montoya Thorne,” he began.
Even from beyond d3ath, she used Montoya.
I should not have been surprised.
Isabella had always understood names as architecture. Montoya was the foundation of her empire. Thorne had been temporary scaffolding.
Harrison read the opening clauses.
Debts.
Funeral expenses.
Then smaller bequests.
Fifty thousand to Maria Gonzalez, her housekeeper of twenty-five years.
I smiled faintly.
Maria had seen more of Isabella’s truth than most board members.
One hundred thousand to the Monarch Butterfly Preservation Fund.
That one hurt.
Before everything, before Montoya Designs became an empire and then a battlefield, Isabella and I drove to Mexico in an old Jeep. We slept in cheap motels and hiked into the mountains to see the monarchs. She stood there in a cloud of orange and black wings, crying without shame.
“It’s like every soul in the world is flying home,” she whispered.
She had remembered.
Twenty-five thousand to Miguel, her driver, “for never once commenting on the colorful guests my son brought to my home.”
Nathan snapped upright.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Kyle touched his sleeve.
“Nothing.”
But it was not nothing.
It was Isabella sharpening the first knife.
Then came Kyle.
Five thousand dollars, with a recommendation that he take a course in professional ethics because her financial records suggested he “needed a refresher.”
Kyle went pale.
Then Sophia.
The imitation handbag she had attempted to swap for Isabella’s authentic Birkin.
Sophia shrieked.
Nathan shouted at her to shut up.
I sat still, watching Isabella dismantle his entourage piece by piece.
She had always been precise when angry.
Then Harrison reached Nathan.
The penthouse on Park Avenue.
Nathan exhaled.
The Patek Philippe watch collection.
Nathan laughed and looked at me.
But the watches were in a safe.
And the key, Harrison read, had been entrusted to me.
Everyone turned.
Nathan’s face went white.
I was as stunned as he was.
I had no key.
No memory of receiving one.
No idea why Isabella had placed me in the center of this strange final game.
“What did she give you?” Nathan demanded.
“I don’t know,” I said.
It was the truth.
He did not believe me.
But his anger was interrupted by greed. He waved the key away. Locksmiths existed. Money solved locks. He wanted the estate.
The $160 million.
The empire.
“The main event,” he said. “Read it.”
Mr. Harrison turned the page.
“To my ex-husband, Julian Thorne,” he read, “I leave the sum of fifteen dollars, cash, to cover the cost of the bus ride back to wherever it is he came from.”
The room froze.
Then Nathan exploded.
He laughed so hard he had to brace himself against the table. Tears came to his eyes. Sophia, desperate to recover from her own humiliation, laughed too. Kyle gave a thin smile, hoping to reattach himself to victory.
“Fifteen dollars!” Nathan roared. “Oh my God. Fifteen dollars.”
He circled the table and stood near me.
“It’s over, old man.”
He pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and threw it across the table.
“Here. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
I looked at the bill.
Then at Mr. Harrison.
He had not closed the document.
He had not risen.
He was waiting.
Nathan put on his jacket.
“Send the papers to my office,” he said. “I’m done here.”
“Mr. Thorne,” Harrison said.
Nathan stopped.
“Sit down.”
The room changed.
Nathan turned slowly.
“What?”
“I have not finished.”
Harrison reached into his briefcase and withdrew a sealed folder.
Red wax.
A codicil.
Signed one week before Isabella’s stroke.
Nathan collapsed back into his chair as if his bones had gone hollow.
Harrison broke the seal.
“This document supersedes all prior articles regarding the primary estate.”
Nathan whispered, “No.”
Mr. Harrison began to read.
“To my son, Nathan. I am writing this because I am finally done being a coward.”
My heart stopped.
“For twenty years, I have let you believe a lie. A lie I created. A lie I nurtured. A lie that destroyed a good man: your father.”
Nathan slammed both hands on the table.
“This is fake.”
Harrison lifted a psychiatric evaluation.
“Your mother underwent independent cognitive review seventy-two hours before signing. She was declared entirely lucid and in full command of her faculties.”
Nathan sank back.
Harrison continued.
The room disappeared.
The past returned.
Connecticut.
Three in the morning.
Isabella’s office lit only by computer screens.
Montoya Designs bleeding money, lawsuits circling, banks calling in loans, a Caribbean resort project collapsing under bad permits and worse partners. Isabella sitting at her desk without makeup, without fire, without the armor she wore for the world.
“It’s over,” she whispered.
I sat beside her.
She was not afraid of poverty.
We had known poverty.
She was afraid of public failure.
She was afraid of prison.
Then came the offer.
A Dubai-backed private equity group.
One hundred million dollars to save Montoya Designs.
On paper, a miracle.
In the fine print, a crime.
Inflated construction costs. Shell suppliers. Future projects designed to wash dirty money through luxury developments.
I saw it immediately.
“It’s laundering,” I told her.
She fell apart.
Not dramatically.
Completely.
She collapsed on the floor and begged.
“Julian, please. Nathan is at Yale. He’ll be humiliated. He’ll hate me. Please. There has to be a way.”
There was a way.
One terrible way.
I took the deal into my own hands.
I used my architect’s license, my name, my reputation. I created shell companies. Thorn Construction. Thorn Project Management. Thorn Architectural Supply. I attended the meetings. Approved the invoices. Signed the contracts. Built the firewall between Isabella and the crime.
For two years, I lived in shadows so she could stand in light.
Montoya Designs survived.
The lawsuits vanished.
The banks quieted.
Isabella became a genius in the financial pages.
Then the FBI came for me.
They had my signatures.
My companies.
My invoices.
My name.
Not hers.
They offered me a deal if I gave them the real beneficiary.
I gave them myself.
Professional negligence.
Tax evasion.
Falsified records.
Enough to ruin me.
Not enough to reach her.
I lost my license.
My career.
My reputation.
And then Nathan, home from Yale, told his mother the story she wanted to believe.
That I had betrayed her.
That I was greedy.
That I had humiliated the family.
Isabella chose that story because it kept her clean.
She divorced me.
She let the world call me disgraced.
She let our son hate me.
Now, in a Manhattan conference room twenty years later, her words returned like a verdict.
“Your father burned his life down so ours could remain standing,” Harrison read. “And I let you spit on the ashes.”
Nathan looked like he might be sick.
I did not move.
I could not.
Validation, when it arrives twenty years late, does not feel like healing.
It feels like a wound being reopened by hands that are finally clean.
Harrison’s voice remained steady.
“This fortune exists because of Julian Thorne. You, Nathan, have spent a lifetime consuming what he sacrificed to preserve.”
Nathan whispered, “She loved me.”
“She did,” Harrison said, looking up briefly. “That may have been part of the problem.”
Then came the final disposition.
All property.
All holdings.
All stocks, bonds, real estate.
All controlling interest in Montoya Designs.
An estate valued at approximately $160 million.
Harrison read the words slowly.
“I give, devise, and bequeath to my ex-husband, Julian Thorne.”
The room fell into a silence so deep it felt physical.
Nathan made a small sound.
Sophia’s mouth opened.
Kyle stood absolutely still.
I stared at Harrison.
The empire I had saved and fled from had returned to me like a chain wrapped in velvet.
Harrison continued.
“Not as a gift, but as payment. Long overdue and wholly inadequate compensation for the career I allowed to be destroyed, the honor I allowed to be stolen, and the family I allowed to be broken.”
I closed my eyes.
Isabella.
Brilliant.
Cruel.
Cowardly.
Finally honest.
Finally too late.
There was one last bequest.
Nathan lifted his head, hollow-eyed.
“For my son, Nathan,” Harrison read, “who has already received a lifetime’s worth of fortune in money spent freely and sacrifices never acknowledged, I leave precisely what he so thoughtfully offered his father.”
Harrison opened a drawer.
Took out a cashier’s check.
Slid it across the table.
It stopped before Nathan.
“Fifteen dollars,” Harrison said. “Your inheritance. For bus fare.”
Kyle left first.
No loyalty.
No goodbye.
Just a shark leaving bloodless water.
Sophia looked at Nathan, then at the check, and disgust replaced calculation. She grabbed her purse and walked out.
Nathan sat alone.
For the first time in his life, he looked poor.
Not financially.
Spiritually.
I stood slowly.
The twenty-dollar bill still lay in front of me.
I picked it up and placed it beside the cashier’s check.
“Keep the change,” I said.
Nathan looked up.
His eyes were red.
“Dad.”
The word stopped me.
It had been twenty years.
One syllable arrived two decades late, dragged out of him not by love but collapse.
I looked at my son.
I saw the ten-year-old boy throwing aside a handmade ship.
The Yale student condemning me.
The grown man laughing at my humiliation.
I also saw the child Isabella and I failed in different ways.
“Nathan,” I said quietly, “you don’t get to spend twenty years burning a bridge and then cry because there’s no road back.”
His face twisted.
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“She lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“You let her.”
“Yes.”
That answer hit him harder than denial would have.
I did not excuse myself.
I had taken the fall.
I had also abandoned the fight for my son’s understanding because I was tired, ashamed, and angry. Isabella had built the lie. Nathan had weaponized it. But I had allowed silence to become stone.
“I thought you were guilty,” he whispered.
“You wanted me to be.”
He looked down.
Because he knew.
Wanting a villain is easier than examining a mother.
Wanting a worthless father is easier than admitting your whole life was funded by someone else’s ruin.
Mr. Harrison placed another envelope in front of me after the others left.
“The key,” he said.
I stared at it.
“I told you I don’t have one.”
He nodded.
“Your wife knew you would say that.”
He opened the envelope and removed a photograph.
It showed the model battleship I had built Nathan when he was ten.
The USS Missouri.
My breath caught.
“She kept it?” I whispered.
“In her private study,” Harrison said. “Behind glass.”
He placed a small note beside the photograph.
Isabella’s handwriting.
Julian,
The key is where you hid your best work.
I remembered then.
The battleship had a hollow base.
I had built it that way for balance.
No one knew.
Except Isabella, who had watched me glue the false bottom into place in our old garage.
The safe key was inside the ship.
The gift Nathan had thrown aside.
The gift Isabella had preserved.
Harrison said, “The watch collection is yours to distribute as you see fit. Her instruction was that Nathan may receive none unless you choose it.”
I laughed once.
It hurt.
“What am I supposed to do with all of this?”
“Whatever you want,” Harrison said. “For the first time in twenty years.”
That night, I did not go to Per Se.
I did not drink champagne.
I did not stand over Nathan and list every wound he had given me.
I took a cab to a modest hotel near the park, sat on the edge of a bed too soft for my back, and read Isabella’s letter in full.
It was twenty-three pages.
Part confession.
Part apology.
Part legal weapon.
Part love letter written by someone who had never learned how to love without control.
She wrote about fear.
About shame.
About watching me leave the courthouse after the divorce and realizing she had not saved herself—only delayed the day truth would come due.
She wrote about Nathan.
“He became what I rewarded,” she wrote. “And I punished you for refusing to worship what I had built.”
She wrote about the monarchs.
About Mexico.
About the day she saw me sand a cradle for a friend’s child and understood too late that I had always known how to build living things, not just beautiful ones.
At the end, she wrote:
I cannot ask forgiveness.
I have no right to it.
But I can return what I stole, even if I cannot return the years.
I read that line until morning.
Three months later, I returned to Caldwell and Finch—not in the old suit, but in jeans and a clean shirt.
The board of Montoya Designs expected a spectacle.
They got a carpenter.
I did not want to run the company.
I did not want to return to galas, investor calls, legal land mines, and rooms full of people who smiled with knives behind their backs.
But I would not let Nathan devour it.
Not because I wanted revenge.
Because too many people worked there.
Maria.
Miguel.
Designers.
Assistants.
Seamstresses.
Warehouse workers.
People whose lives should not be destroyed by one spoiled man’s hunger.
I appointed a new CEO from inside the company: a woman named Elise Carr, who had spent seventeen years quietly fixing problems Isabella created and Nathan ignored. She had no glamour. No scandal. No patience for fools.
I gave employees profit participation.
I created an ethics board with real authority.
I sold the Park Avenue penthouse and used the money to restore pensions Isabella had once raided during the crisis.
I kept one thing.
The model battleship.
It arrived in Austin six weeks later, crated like museum glass.
I opened it in my workshop.
There it was, smaller than I remembered and better than I expected. The paint had aged. One tiny cannon had loosened. The flag was still intact.
Inside the hollow base was a key wrapped in cloth.
I held it for a long time.
Then I placed the key on the workbench beside the rocking chair I had never finished.
Nathan called three times that week.
I did not answer.
Then a letter arrived.
Not typed.
Handwritten.
Dad,
I don’t know how to write this without sounding like I want something. Maybe I do. Maybe I want a version of myself that didn’t laugh in that room.
I hated you because it made my life easier. I believed Mom because the alternative meant everything I had was built on your pain.
I don’t know if I can fix anything.
I don’t know if you want me to try.
Nathan
I read it once.
Then folded it and placed it in a drawer.
Not destroyed.
Not answered.
Some doors do not need to open immediately just because someone finally knocks.
A year passed.
The rocking chair sold to a woman in San Antonio who wanted it for her father’s eightieth birthday. She sent me a photograph afterward: an old man sitting in it on a porch, smiling at a baby in his lap.
That photo did something the inheritance could not.
It made me feel useful.
The $160 million remained mostly untouched by me. Structures were built. Legal wrongs corrected. People paid. Scholarships established for students who lost careers to family obligations and second chances. An architecture fund in my name, though I fought the naming until Elise told me to stop being dramatic.
Montoya Designs survived.
Changed.
Maybe even improved.
Nathan did not get the company.
He did not get the penthouse.
He did not get the watches.
He did, eventually, get one meeting.
He came to Austin in late summer.
No suit.
No girlfriend.
No advisor.
Just a man in a rental car standing outside my workshop with sweat on his collar and fear in his eyes.
I kept sanding.
He stood near the door.
“Can I come in?”
I looked at him.
“Don’t touch anything sharp.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
He stepped inside slowly, as if entering a church he had once vandalized.
The battleship sat on the shelf above my bench.
He saw it.
His face changed.
“You kept it?”
“No,” I said. “Your mother did.”
He stared at it for a long time.
“I remember throwing it.”
“I do too.”
His mouth tightened.
“I was a horrible kid.”
“You were a kid.”
“And then?”
I set down the sandpaper.
“Then you became responsible for it.”
He nodded.
Silence filled the workshop.
Not hostile.
Not healed.
Just honest.
“I don’t know how to be your son,” he said.
I looked at the man I had lost long before Isabella d!ed.
“I don’t know how to be your father anymore.”
His eyes filled.
Maybe he expected me to soften.
Maybe he hoped for a clean ending.
There are no clean endings after twenty years of rot.
Only careful beginnings, if anyone has the courage for them.
Nathan took out an envelope.
“I brought back the check.”
I looked at it.
The fifteen-dollar cashier’s check.
“I never cashed it,” he said.
“Why bring it to me?”
“Because I don’t want it.”
I studied him.
Then I picked up a pencil, wrote across the back of the envelope, and handed it back.
He looked down.
Bus fare is not an inheritance.
It is a direction.
He swallowed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you decide where to go from here.”
He stood there holding the envelope like it weighed more than the estate.
Maybe it did.
When he left, he did not ask for money.
He did not ask for forgiveness.
He only said, “I’m sorry, Dad.”
This time, the word did not stop me.
But it reached me.
A little.
After he drove away, I returned to the rocking chair on my bench.
Walnut.
Hard grain.
Stubborn.
Beautiful if you worked with it instead of against it.
I ran my hand along the unfinished armrest.
Some pieces of wood cannot be restored to what they were before the split. You can fill the crack. Stabilize the grain. Shape around the damage. But the line remains.
That does not make the piece worthless.
It makes it honest.
I thought of Isabella.
Of the monarchs.
Of Nathan.
Of twenty years lost to shame, silence, and the kind of lies families tell when truth demands too much courage.
Then I switched on the planer.
The workshop filled with its high, steady song.
Outside, Texas sunlight lay warm across the yard.
Inside, shavings curled away from the wood in thin ribbons.
I did not feel victorious.
I did not feel whole.
But I felt something I had not felt in decades.
I felt returned to myself.
And sometimes, after a life has been stolen by people who were supposed to love you, returning to yourself is the only inheritance that matters.
We’d love to hear from you — what kind of family stories do you want us to explore next? Drop your ideas in the comments 👇
