“Penny, do you even understand what you’ve gotten into? Renovation is expensive. It’s time-consuming. It requires skills youdon’thave.”
“I’m aware of my limitations,” I say, shocking myself with how calm I sound. “That’s why I hired a contractor. Labor’s at cost. I’ve been researching materials.”
“And your job? Your apartment?”
“I was fired. The day after the auction.”
“And you didn’t lead with that?”
“I sublet the apartment to Abby’s friend.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I see.”
“Dad, I know this seemsimpulsive?—”
“It doesn’tseemimpulsive, Penny. Itisimpulsive. Like the ceramics studio. And the food blog. And the?—”
“Iknow.” The familiar tightness creeps into my chest. “I know I’ve started a lot of things I didn’t finish. But this is different.”
“How?”
Because I can’t afford to leave. Not financially, not emotionally.
“Because this time, I need to prove I can see something through,” I say. “Even if it’s just to myself.”
The silence stretches between us, filled with years of unfinished projects and disappointed expectations.
“Well,” he finally says, his tone softer than I expected, “you’ve always been stubborn when you set your mind to something. Just… be careful with your remaining savings. And read every contract twice.”
It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, but from my practically pathological father, it’s practically a blessing.
“I will. Thanks, Dad.”
After we hang up, I sit in the quiet, letting it sink in: I’ve officially committed. No safety net. No backup plan. Just me, a disaster of a house, and a town full of people already placing bets on how fast I’ll give up.
Speaking of which...
On impulse, I open Instagram and create a new account. Not my personal one—filled with carefully curated brunches and perfectly edited sunsets—but something new. Something real.
Username:@ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction
Bio:Tiny house, huge mistake? PR girl buys disaster property sight unseen. Follow along as I renovate this mess—and maybe myself in the process. Maple Glen, WA.
For my first post, I upload the photo I took that morning—my tiny house haloed in mist and sunlight, looking deceptively serene. I stare at it a moment before typing:
Day 1 of the rest of my questionable decisions. Meet the “Sequin Shack” (local nickname, not my choice): a 400 sq ft tiny house with big problems and zero functional systems. Bought drunk at a charity auction because my ex got engaged and my boss said I was “too emotional for leadership.” Pretty sure this proves her point.
#TinyHouseHugeFeelings #ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction #SendHelp #AndLumber
I hit post before I can talk myself out of it, then immediately close the app. It’s one thing to commit privately. It’s another to document the whole mess online—for strangers, for friends, formyself.
But maybe that’s the point. Maybe sharing the process, flaws and all, will keep me honest. Accountable. Rooted.
I check my inbox and blink. Diana has already replied—severance accepted with minimal pushback. Just like that, I’m officially unemployed. Untethered from the life I’d built for the last five years.
It should feel terrifying.
