My phone buzzes.
Abby:
Morning check-in! Still alive or eaten by bears?
I smile and type back:
Alive. No bears. Making a potentially life-altering decision while drinking gas station coffee in mud.
Her replyis immediate:
Those are the BEST kind. Spill.
I glance back at the house, then down at the photo I just took. Something in me settles, like puzzle pieces finally locking into place.
I’m staying. Going to renovate this disaster and see it through.
Typing it makes it real. Hitting send feels even better.
The typing dots appear, vanish, reappear. Then:
OMG YES!!! Project Penny Finds Roots!!! I’m booking a visit once you have running water and fewer tetanus risks.
Her enthusiasm hits me harder than expected—warm and grounding, like a hug through the phone.
Have you told your boss yet? Or your dad?
Cue immediate cortisol spike.
The mention of Diana sends a shock through my system. In all the chaos, I’ve barely processed being fired. The severance email is still sitting in my inbox, unsigned.
Not yet. Dad knows I’m here but thinks it’s temporary insanity. Boss fired me, remember?
Technically, you still need to sign the severance. Perfect time to negotiate remote work if you want to keep a foot in LA.
I consider that for approximately two seconds.
Nope. Clean break. New chapter. Tiny house, huge feelings.
YESSSSS. Proud of you, Pen. Terrified for your sanity, but proud.
I pocket my phone and take another sip of coffee, now lukewarm but still strangely satisfying. The decision feels right—solid in a way few of my decisions ever have. I’m staying. Committing. Building something real.
And if I fail spectacularly?
At least I won’t have run. Not this time.
I raise my coffee in a toast to the house. “Here’s to terrible decisions and the stubborn idiots who see them through.”
Back at Marge’s B&B, I set up my laptop on the window seat and do what I’ve always done best: shape a narrative.
Step one: a polite, firm email to Diana accepting my termination and negotiating a slightly better severance. Five years of writing persuasive messaging for clients, finally used to advocate for myself.
Step two: call my father. Brace for lecture.
“I’ve decided to stay,” I tell him, catching him between meetings. “Long enough to renovate the house properly.”
There’s a pause. Then a sigh heavy with subtext.
