Page 30 of This Love is Under Construction

“I don’t have a designated calling day, Mom,” I say, though we both know that’s not entirely true. Our communication follows patterns—predictable check-ins that maintain connection without requiring vulnerability.

“Well, it’s nice to hear from you anyway,” she says, and I can hear movement in the background—the familiar sounds of her never being quite settled in one place. “How’s your little house project going? The pictures online look amazing.”

I hesitate, the practiced response—Great!

Making progress every day!—hovering on my lips before I let it dissolve, replaced by unexpected honesty.

“It’s falling apart, actually. The house is half-finished, the contractor quit, there’s a storm damaging what we’ve built, and the TV people are about to pull out. ”

The silence that follows is so uncharacteristic of my perpetually chatty mother that I check to make sure the call hasn’t dropped.

“Mom?”

“I’m here,” she says, her voice softer now, the background noise suddenly absent as if she’s stopped moving to focus. “That sounds really hard, sweetheart.”

The simple acknowledgment, free of advice or redirection, breaks something open inside me. “It is hard. And I don’t know what to do. I’ve always been good at starting over when things get complicated, but I don’t want to start over this time. I want to fix what’s broken, but I don’t know how.”

“Is this about the house,” my mother asks gently, “or about the contractor?”

I laugh despite myself, the sound wet with lingering tears. “Both. Neither. I don’t know anymore. The lines have blurred.”

“Tell me about him,” she says, and for the first time in my adult life, I feel like my mother is actually listening rather than waiting for her turn to speak.

So I tell her about Owen—his precision and patience, his hidden creativity, his loyalty to family and community.

I tell her about the window seat debate and the beam removal and the dance during the power outage.

I tell her about finding the flip plans and the devastating argument that followed.

I tell her about realizing I love him precisely when he was walking away.

“And now I’m stuck in this half-finished house during a storm, trying to figure out if I should fight for this place—for him—or if I should do what I’ve always done and find somewhere new to start over,” I finish, surprised by my own candor.

My mother is quiet again, but it’s a thoughtful silence rather than a distracted one. When she finally speaks, her voice carries a wisdom I’ve rarely associated with my flighty, artistic parent.

“You know, Penny, I’ve moved seventeen times since you graduated high school,” she says. “New apartments, new towns, new states. Never stayed anywhere longer than eighteen months.”

“I know, Mom.” This is familiar territory—her restlessness, her inability to settle.

“What you don’t know is why,” she continues, surprising me. “I built a life on wheels because I didn’t believe anything would stay. Your father, my parents, even you kids eventually—everyone leaves or gets left. So I learned to leave first, to keep moving so nothing could root too deep.”

The parallel to my own pattern is so obvious it takes my breath away. “That sounds familiar,” I manage.

“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’ve lived, 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 nearly midnight 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 will have 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 on the 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.