Owen is quiet for a long beat. His eyes flick from the postcards to the birdhouse on the window seat. When he finally speaks, his voice has that rare, unguarded texture I’ve only heard a few times before.
“I build things I don’t get to keep,” he says. “Houses for clients who move in after I leave. Birdhouses for birds that migrate with the seasons. Designs that stay in notebooks.”
“Because of your dad? The family business?”
He shakes his head. “That’s part of it. But it started before. I think I’ve always been more comfortable making homes for other people than claiming one for myself.”
The parallel lands hard. My whole life chasing home. His whole life building homes he doesn’t live in. Me afraid to stay. Him unable to leave. We’re not opposites—we’re reflections of the same broken pattern.
“We’re afraid of different things,” I say, the realization taking shape as I say it. “I run before I can be left. You stay even when you should move forward.”
He meets my eyes, and for once, neither of us looks away. “Different sides of the same wall.”
“Maybe that’s why this works,” I say, gesturing around the room, to the house, to us. “When it works. Your roots balance my wings.”
“When it works,” he echoes, that ghost of a smile flickering across his face.
We stand there, quiet for a moment. The air feels different—lighter. Not healed, not reset. But cleared, like the worldafter a storm.
“I should finish the roof repair,” Owen says, always practical, even in moments like this. “Storm front coming tomorrow.”
“I’ll help,” I offer. “I’ve been watching YouTube tutorials. I’m basically a pro now.”
That earns me an actual smile. “Was that what that patch job was?”
“Hey. I had limited resources and even more limited knowledge. It was structurally creative.”
“Creative is one word for it,” he says, the old rhythm returning, easy and familiar and missed.
We work the rest of the afternoon side by side, fixing storm damage like we’ve done a dozen times before—silent, seamless, connected. It’s not a full reconciliation. Not yet. But it’s something. A beginning. A frame to build on.
As the day fades, Owen packs up his tools. I walk him to the door, Finn trotting behind us like he knows this time, maybe, we’ll get it right.
“Will you come back tomorrow?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
He nods, his expression softer in the golden light. “The renovation isn’t finished.”
The words land with more weight than they carry. I smile, hearing what he doesn’t say.
“No, it isn’t. But the foundation’s solid now.”
“Still needs weatherproofing,” he adds, calling back to that old metaphor we never quite stopped building on.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say. And for the first time in days, I mean it.
After he’s gone, I return to the window seat, where the birdhouse catches the last bit of light. Beside it, I place the San Diego postcard—my first message to a future self I couldn’t have imagined.
The postcards told the story of a girl always searching for home.
The birdhouses told the story of a man always building homes for others.
…Maybe we weren’t so different after all.
There’sa particular energy that comes with having absolutely nothing to lose. It’s not desperation—though that’s certainly in the mix—but something adjacent to freedom. When you’ve already faced your worst fear (someone walking away) and survived it (barely, dramatically, with questionable coping mechanisms), the paralysis of potential failure dissolves into something more productive: determination.
This explains why I’ve transformed Marge’s cozy breakfast nook into what looks like a war room for an impending tiny house revolution. Papers cover every available surface—market research on the tiny house industry, printouts of Owen’s designs from photos I sneakily took of his notebook, sample business plans, and enough sticky notes to wallpaper a small bathroom. My laptop sits at the center of this chaos, surrounded by three empty tea mugs that Marge keeps refilling without comment.
“You’ve been at this since 5 a.m.,” Marge observes, appearing with yet another steaming mug and a plate of scones I didn’t ask for but desperately need. “Should I be concerned or impressed?”
