The Decision

Yusuf had been at the bakery for four years, and everyone in the family treated that as settled. He got up at half past three, he shaped the dough while the town was still dark, and by seven the shelf behind the counter was full.

His uncle Kerem had taught him everything. "You have good hands," Kerem said once, and Yusuf carried that sentence around for months. Nobody in the family had ever praised anybody twice, so once was a lot.

But there was a workshop at the end of the road. Yusuf passed it every afternoon on his way home, and he always slowed down. He liked the smell of cut wood, and he liked that the men inside were never in a hurry.

In March he had asked about an apprenticeship. He hadn't told anybody, not even his sister. The owner, a quiet woman called Bridget, took his name and said the places were usually gone by summer.

The envelope arrived on a Tuesday. Yusuf read it twice at the kitchen table, then folded it small and put it in his back pocket. He had been offered a place as a trainee joiner, starting in September.

For nine days he said nothing. He worked, he cleaned the oven, he counted the wages on Friday as always. If he took the place, his wages would drop by a third for two years. That was the smaller problem.

The bigger problem sat at the front of the shop every morning. Kerem had opened the bakery at thirty and had kept it open through two very bad winters. Yusuf knew what his uncle had planned for him.

His sister Leyla found the letter in the wash. She didn't shout. She said that he had been unhappy since the spring, and that everybody had noticed except him. Yusuf told her she was wrong, and then sat down.

On the tenth day he came in early, before the first tray went into the oven. "I need to be honest with you," he said. Kerem put down the tray and waited, which was worse than any question.

Yusuf explained about the workshop, the letter and September. He said he was grateful, and he meant it. He also said that if he stayed, he would still be standing at the same table at forty, thinking about wood.

Kerem was quiet for a long moment. Then he asked how much the place paid, and whether Bridget was a fair employer. He didn't ask Yusuf to stay, and that silence hurt more than an argument would have.

"I thought you would be angry," Yusuf said. "I was angry for about a minute," his uncle answered. "Then I remembered that my father wanted me to be an accountant. Go. But you work Saturdays here until September."

The relief came slowly, over the whole day, like warmth in a cold room. Yusuf had expected a decision to feel like a door closing. It felt more like putting down something heavy that he had carried without noticing.

In September he started at the workshop. On Saturdays he still shaped dough, and his uncle still told him nothing twice. But once, in front of a customer, Kerem said that his nephew was going to be a joiner, and he sounded proud.