I shake my head, and yank my cap off, tossing it on the marble island that has my mom’s hands all over it. The kitchen looks like something she’d dream up, replacing my shattered plans with her own spark of hope.
White shaker cabinets, gray-veined countertops, and a giant wrought-iron chandelier to warm the place up. I couldn’t have chosen better myself.
The living room’s wide open, sunlight spilling across the floor through clean, glass windows that line the entire back wall. Across from it, the fireplace I built brick by brick stretches allthe way to the vaulted ceilings of the A-frame. The dark red color matches the knotty pine floors just like I imagined.
I drag a hand down my face, breath catching somewhere between my throat and my chest. My fingers shake when they fall away.
Every corner I turn, every detail I see—it’s him.
Pieces I never planned now mirror some of my favorite parts of my childhood home—the first place he ever built.
From the doorways framed in raw, honey-toned wood—no stain or polish, just the kind of finish that lets the grain speak for itself, to the window seat in the kitchen. It looks just like the little breakfast nook we used to prefer over the giant dining table.
This wasn’t a quick contractor job, it was my dad.
He fuckin’ finished it.
While I was halfway across the world, chasing my pride in a war he didn’t believe in, he was here, finishing my house. A house I didn’t even know I wanted anymore. A future I’d shoved so far down, I forgothowto want it.
And he kept building anyway.
My boots echo in the hallway as I move to the back, toward what was supposed to be the primary suite. I remember standing in this space with him, arms crossed, arguing over whether the windows should face west or south. He said the morning light would be softer if the bed faced the trees, but I wanted to look out onto the wildflower fields from the bed and the tub.
The bathroom’s half-shell, half-dreams—no tub, just copper lines and a stack of open tile boxes shoved in a corner like someone meant to get to it. A familiar mallet and tile cuter are next to a half-open can of dried-out grout.
Stepping back, I see the scene for what it is. A project barely started, but the tools are nearby—like it was next on a never-ending list and he just couldn't get to it in time.
And somehow, that’s the part that wrecks me most.
Not the silence.
Not the emptiness.
But the proof that he was mid-motion—hands dirty, sleeves rolled, probably humming under his breath—just trying to make something better.
This space feels haunted, not by ghosts, but by intention. By fingerprints left on plans never finished. By the echo of a life paused mid-breath.
There’s grief in the grout lines, loss in every tile not yet laid.
Like he stepped out for a break and never came back. Like love lived here once, and then ran out of time.
The thought steals the air right from my fucking lungs. I grip the doorframe to keep from crumbling. The weight on my chest is unbearable. Shame, grief, fury—aimed directly at myself. I want to punch something. To scream. Crawl out of my own skin.
I let him finish this alone, let himdiealone.
Don’t know how long I stand there. Long enough for the dust to settle around me. Long enough for the ache in my chest to bloom into something jagged and wild. Long enough for the memories I’ve tried like hell to outrun to start creeping back in. I shove away from the bathroom and head back to the front door, but the memories chase me, forcing me to remember every ugly second.
I was eighteen and barely fresh from graduation when I took off. Joined the Army despite my family begging me to stay. At the time, I couldn’t see past Marlee’s dreams of a future I didn’t recognize, but I promised them I’d be back in four years. Promised I’d help. Promised I’d build a life here.
Dad was pissed. Thought I was throwing away a future rooted in this land for a war that wasn’t mine, and a girl who was desperate for a bigger future than Heart Springs.
None of that matters when you’re young and dumb, though—and hindsight doesn’t save what you lost along the way to doing things right.
I trace my hand along the edge of the doorway, where the frame doesn’t quite sit flush. I remember holding the level while Dad lined it up. The way he cursed at it under his breath when it didn’t sit right. Said nothing was ever perfect, but that didn’t mean you shouldn’t try like hell to make it so.
My throat closes. Even after I re-enlisted—after Marlee’s letter, after everything…
I can still hear his voice.“Come home, son. Don’t let her be the reason you throw your life away.”
