“I always admired that about you, you know,” she says, catching me completely off guard.
“Admired what? My inability to commit to anything?”
“No,” she corrects gently. “Your bravery in trying to build something that won’t roll away at the first strong wind. Even when you were little, making those elaborate blanket forts or that treehouse at your father’s that took all summer—you were always trying to create something permanent in a world that felt temporary.”
I think of the postcards I’ve collected from every place I’velived, the physical reminders of all the temporary homes I’ve passed through. “I’m not sure how brave it is to keep running when things get hard.”
“The running isn’t brave,” my mother agrees. “But trying again is. And it sounds to me like you’re trying to build something real this time, something that matters enough to fight for rather than flee from.”
“What if it’s too late?” I ask, voicing my deepest fear. “What if I’ve already lost him?”
“Then you’ll know you tried,” she says simply. “And trying to build something lasting, even if it falls apart, takes more courage than always keeping one foot out the door like I did.”
I look around at the half-finished house—the exposed beams and incomplete walls, the window seat awaiting cushions, the partially repaired birdhouse on the workbench. All works in progress. All vulnerable. All worth the effort, despite the risk of failure.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, meaning it more than she probably realizes. “That actually helps.”
“Well, don’t sound so surprised,” she laughs. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”
We talk a while longer—about her latest art project, about the TV show complications, about practical next steps for the renovation. But something has shifted between us, a new understanding that feels significant if tenuous. By the time we hang up, the storm has settled into a gentle rain, and darkness has fallen outside the windows.
It’s nearlymidnight when I finally admit defeat on my attempt to repair the roof leak. The storm has passed, leaving behind a quieter, steadier rainfall that seems determined to test every seam and seal in the house. I’ve managed to mitigate the worst of the damage, but proper repairs willhave to wait for daylight—and, ideally, someone with actual construction knowledge.
I gather my things, preparing to retreat to the camper for a few hours of sleep before tackling tomorrow’s challenges. As I step onto the porch, movement in the darkness catches my attention—a vehicle parked at the edge of the property, barely visible in the ambient light from the house.
Owen’s truck.
My heart stutters as I squint through the darkness, trying to make sense of its presence. It’s definitely his—the distinctive silhouette of the ladder rack on top, the small dent in the passenger door from a job site accident last month. But there’s no movement, no sign of Owen himself approaching the house.
I step off the porch, rain immediately soaking through my sweater as I move closer, drawn by confusion and hope in equal measure. When I’m close enough to see through the driver’s side window, I stop, a complicated emotion catching in my throat.
Owen is asleep in the driver’s seat, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle against the window, Finn curled up beside him on the bench seat. They’ve been out here for who knows how long—watching over the property during the storm, making sure we were safe without making their presence known.
I stand in the rain, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the furrow between his brows that doesn’t fully relax even in sleep. Part of me wants to knock on the window, to wake him and demand explanations, to ask why he’s here if he’s supposedly done with this project—with me.
But another part understands this silent vigil for what it is—his way of caring without admitting he cares, of protecting without claiming ownership, of being present while maintaining distance. It’s so perfectly, frustratingly Owen that it makes my chest ache with renewed certainty.
I return to the camper, leaving them undisturbed in the truck. As I settle onto the small bed, I hear movement outside—the sound of Finn jumping down from the truck, his nails clicking onthe gravel as he trots over to the camper. There’s a moment of hesitation, then the soft whine I’ve come to recognize as his request for attention.
I open the camper door to find him sitting there, tail sweeping the wet ground, eyes hopeful in the darkness. Behind him, Owen’s truck remains silent, no indication that he’s awake or aware of his dog’s defection.
“Come on, then,” I whisper, and Finn bounds up the steps, shaking rain from his coat before settling at the foot of the bed with familiar ease.
Through the small window, I can just make out the shape of Owen’s truck, a darker shadow in the night. He’s still out there, keeping watch while pretending not to care. I’m in here, pretending not to notice his presence while drawing comfort from it.
We’re both terrible at this—at vulnerability, at honesty, at facing what’s broken instead of walking away. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe staying when it’s hard, when it would be easier to run, is exactly what makes something worth building.
My mother—the woman who’d taught me how to pack a life into two suitcases—was telling me to stay. And for the first time, I actually wanted to listen.
There’ssomething deeply humbling about trying to fix something you have no idea how to repair. I’ve spent the morning hunched over Owen’s broken birdhouse at the workbench, surrounded by wood glue, clamps, and the persistent feeling that I’m doing everything wrong. The storm has passed, leaving behind that peculiar stillness that follows chaos—air scrubbed clean, puddles reflecting perfect blue sky, the world reset to factory settings.
The birdhouse lies in pieces before me, its beautiful craftsmanship evident even in its broken state. I’ve managed to reattach the roof and reconstruct most of the main chamber, but there’s a delicate decorative element—a tiny carved leaf pattern along the edge—that keeps breaking off despite my best efforts. In my previous life, I would have tossed the whole project and ordered a replacement online. But this isn’t replaceable. It’s Owen’s work, his hands, his care shaped into cedar and sealed against the elements.
“Come on,” I mutter, applying another careful drop of glue to the fractured edge. “Work with me here.”
Finn watches from his spot near the door, head tilted in what I choose to interpret as moral support rather than judgment of my questionable repair skills. He’s been dividing his time between the camper with me and the truck with Owen, who continues his silent vigil at the edge of the property—closeenough to watch over us, far enough to maintain the fiction that he’s not involved.
The leaf pattern finally adheres, and I hold it in place, counting seconds and trying not to breathe too hard. My repair work is obvious—visible seams where pieces meet, small gaps where fragments were lost to the storm, an overall asymmetry that Owen’s original design certainly didn’t have. But it’s solid. Functional. The birds won’t care about the aesthetic imperfections.
