Chapter Fifteen
The Weight of Walls
T he house before me is the same one I left behind a decade ago, but it’s painted in different emotions.
Once, it stood proud—clean lines of white shiplap against the green of the pasture, like a daydream for the hopeful.
My dad used to run his hand along the siding and say it was built to last. That no matter what storms came through, we’d made something strong enough to hold steady—
something to keep the love inside safe.
Now? The boards are faded, worn down by weather and time, and I missed every fucking minute.
The porch that wraps and curves around all the edges of my single-story home was designed so I could watch my family grow at every angle. Back then, I imagined sitting out here with a cold beer and a kid on each knee, watching the sun go down to the soundtrack of my wife’s laughter.
Instead, the boards creak under my weight, and parts of the steps are split—not from the pounding of little feet, but from storms and neglect.
Life didn’t grow here.
It stalled.
Got stuck in the same place I did the day I shipped out.
And then it got burned to hell when I chose not to come back.
I swallow hard, my throat tight, because it’s not just wood and siding.
It’s him. Every nail, every plank… my dad’s hands were right here .
His voice still echoes in the way the gutters bend, the way the porch slants, just slightly wrong on the northeast corner, because I messed up the measurements and he let me fix it all by myself when I was sixteen.
Part of me feels like he built this for someone else. For a country boy who thought love could fix everything. The one who believed promises made in the sunlight would last forever.
But that boy died a long time ago, somewhere between the sandstorms and sirens, the blood and bone.
Still... some stubborn part of me moves forward anyway. Like maybe, if I just reach for it, there’s still something in me left worth saving.
The key turns easier than I expect.
For a second, I wonder if maybe it won’t work. But the door swings open without a sound. My eyes burn, and my whole goddamn body starts trembling as I cross the threshold. I force one foot forward, then the next.
And stop cold.
“What the fuck…” I breathe, stumbling over my boots, reaching blindly behind me to shut the door. It closes with a click , and then it’s just me and this house.
A house that’s not supposed to look like this.
When I left, the house was maybe halfway done. We’d framed the exterior, gotten it sealed up tight so the weather wouldn’t ruin what we’d started. But the inside was just beginnings. All exposed beams and covered in dust. Plans scribbled on the back of anything I could get my hands on.
Now… now it’s so much further along.
I walk forward slowly, like I’m stepping through someone else’s memory.
Because that’s what it feels like—familiar and foreign at the same time.
Every wall is up, covered in white paint.
The kitchen's a blank slate, wires hanging out of the walls, waiting for life.
No appliances, but the cabinets and sink are in.
I never picked them, never cared to.
Always thought I’d get to the guts when I had a partner by my side. Figured it wasn’t my home alone, it was always meant for a family.
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 all the 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 forgot how to 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 him die alone.
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.”
And I didn’t listen. I told him I was fine. That I was where I needed to be. That I didn’t want to come back.
That was a lie, but I was young, stupid, and prideful.
God, we fought. Every fucking phone call turned into a standoff. Words that used to mean something came out ugly and bitter. Until eventually... there were no words at all.
By the time I came back that last Christmas, I’d convinced myself the bronze star in my pocket meant something. That saving those kids overseas made all the pain back home worth it. That maybe, just maybe, he’d finally see me as more than a disappointment.
But he just looked at me like I was a stranger. Said he didn’t even recognize me.
He was right.
I was proud of what I’d done. Of surviving. Of saving lives. But he saw it for what it really was—just another way I kept running farther from home.
We fought in person that time. Voices raised, years of pain pouring out like gasoline. And I walked away. Stormed out like a coward. Didn’t call. Didn’t write.
The next time I heard his name... it was from my mom a month later. A heart attack. Out in the field, trying to move a busted trailer full of wildflower crates I was supposed to help with that Christmas. He died doing the work I left behind. Died thinking I hated him.
And still, he finished this fucking house. Still gave me this last piece of him.
I press my palm to the front door, breathing hard. My knees threaten to give out, but I hold on. I have to hold on.
Because this isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about a little girl who deserves roots, and safety, and love. And after all the time I spent with her this last week, I know one thing for damn sure. I can give her that. I don’t have much, but I can love Aurora like she’s my own kid.
Purpose pushes me forward. This part was hard as hell, damn near broke me, but I’m not done yet.