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Mom listens, not judging, just letting me talk it out. Eventually, I look around and really see the house. The wallpaper is peeling in long, tragic strips. The air smells like old dirt, cat pee, and maybe the ghost of a raccoon. The floor creaks under my feet in a way that’s either charming or alarming, depending on your mood.
“Mom, not gonna lie, this place looks like a shit hole,” I mutter, trying to lighten the mood.
She grins, ruffling my hair. “Have some faith in me. I can make it look fancy as fuck in no time.”
This is why I love her. She’s part best friend, part disaster recovery crew, part stand-up comic. I take a deep breath, immediately regretting it. “I do have faith, but it literally smells like something died in here.”
She gives me a sheepish look, glancing over her shoulder at the kitchen. “Oh, yeah. Uh, someone did.”
I freeze. “What? Like actually?”
She laughs, waving a hand. “Cam girl, even the worst conditions can bring out the beauty. Trust me. Now, help me pry up these floorboards and let’s see if there’s any treasure—or more dead things.”
And just like that, for the first time in a long time, I feel a little lighter. Maybe life isn’t about fixing everything at once. Maybe you start by pulling up what’s rotten, and see what’s worth saving underneath.
Mom disappears into the next room and comes back dragging a crowbar and a box cutter. “You look like you could use a little demolition therapy,” she says, handing me the box cutter. “Let’s see what horrors are lurking under this beautiful carpet.”
The “carpet” in question is a faded brown thing with a mysterious crusty patch near the window and a smell that makes me nostalgic for the barn back home. I kneel beside Mom, slice a strip, and immediately gag. “Oh my god, what died in here?” I cough, yanking at the fabric. “Is this… fur? Or mold? Or a science experiment?”
Mom grins. “That’s the Seattle special. Fifty percent mildew, fifty percent lost dreams. Grab that end and pull.”
We both tug. The carpet fights back, putting up more resistance than most pitchers I’ve faced this season. It comes up in clumps, releasing a cloud of dust and what might be centuries-old Cheerio dust. I sneeze so hard I nearly fall backwards.
“Careful, Cam, I need you alive. Who else is going to help me with all this free labor?” Mom winks, wiping her brow.
“Is this what you do for fun now?” I tease, eyeing the pile of carpet mushrooms growing by the baseboard. “Find haunted houses and recruit emotionally unstable college students for sweatshop labor?”
“Hey, you’re the one who showed up. I can’t help it if my kid is a glutton for punishment and vintage asbestos.”
I laugh for real, the first time in forever. We compete to see who can pull up the longest strip of carpet without it breaking (she wins, but only because I get the side with the suspicious sticky spot). We find a weird stain shaped exactly like Texas and debate whether it’s wine, blood, or the world’s most unfortunate chili incident.
For two hours, we rip, tear, and sweat together, and for once, I forget about softball and ex-boyfriends and blog posts. It’s just me and Mom, covered in grime, cackling about how much worse things could be. (“At least it’s not shag carpet, right?” “Don’t jinx us.”)
When we collapse onto the bare wood, breathing hard and triumphant, Mom nudges me. “You know, you should talk to Jaxon, Cam. He’s always been there for you. Even when you’re mad, he’s not going to disappear. He’s not the type.”
I roll my eyes, but I smile. “You sound like a mom.”
She shrugs. “Guilty as charged. But I know love when I see it. Don’t let pride keep you from fixing what can still be fixed.”
I stare up at the cracked ceiling, thinking about all the junk we uncovered beneath that carpet.
We’re catching our breath, sprawled out on the newly liberated hardwood, when the front door creaks open and heavy boots stomp through the entryway. A familiar voice echoes down the hall: “Anybody order a cheesy carb delivery?”
Dad appears, still in his Seattle Fire Department uniform, already grinning like he plans to eat half the pizza himself. He holds up the box like a trophy. “Rescue mission complete.”
“Thank god,” I say, sitting up and brushing dust off my jeans. “I was about to eat the carpet padding.”
He laughs, dropping the pizza on a crate that’s doubling as a coffee table. “You girls look like you’ve been in a wrestling match with a raccoon.”
“Honestly, you’re not far off,” Mom says, stretching her arms overhead. “Cam found a stain shaped like Texas and I’m pretty sure we both inhaled enough mold spores to become science experiments.”
Dad gives her a look. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, hon. This place has the ambiance of a haunted meth lab.”
Mom snorts. “Oh, good, you noticed! I think there might actually be a guy living in the garage. I saw a sleeping bag and what looked suspiciously like a chemistry set in the tub.”
I groan, but I’m laughing. “So you bought a house with a bonus occupant? That’s a new low, even for you, Mom.”
She shrugs, unfazed. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for a project. And hey, worst-case scenario, he can help me install the new water heater. Or teach us how to make bathtub gin.”