Don’t make plans for after work. I’m picking you and Savannah up today.
She doesn’t reply, and that is not a no.
The secondI step into 123 Waverly, my phone buzzes with my dad’s FaceTime request, returning my message. Perfect timing, because I’m entering a construction warzone and I need an adultier adult.
I swipe to answer as I walk through the entry. “Ciao, papà.”
He squints at me from the screen, dark, greying eyebrows already pulled into his patented contractor frown. “Show me.”
No greeting. No, how are you? Just Dad. He looks good.
“Yeah, yeah.” I flip the camera and walk toward the staircase.
The whole place smells like old plaster, and the dust is thick. I should have worn a mask, I think, as I climb to the third floor, stepping over a bucket of nails and a stack of trim wrapped carefully in plastic. Men are working everywhere, pulling down old walls and piling debris,
“Santa Maria,” my dad mutters in my ear. “Tell them to be careful with that plaster crown molding; that is probably original.”
“They are saving it,” I tell him, zooming in so he can see the labeled stacks. “Paul said they are preserving everything they can.”
My dad softens. “Bene. Who is the contractor?”
“GC might be upstairs.” I weave between workers until I spot the man with a clipboard, barking orders.
“Hey,” I call. “Got a minute?”
He turns, looks me over, recognition hits, and he nods. “Sure. What’s up, Moretti?”
I hold up my phone. “My father is on the line. He builds houses back in Italy. He wants to ask a few things.”
The GC nods, “Of course.”
He takes the phone, and my dad launches right in. “How are you supporting the structure while taking down these walls? Are you replacing the joists? Have the permits cleared? And what is your plan for electrical since this place is older than both of us combined?”
The GC fires back, answers, “Old beams are still in place; whoever hacked this up into apartments didn’t bother doing it right. The old man paid out the ass for plans, and the structural engineer approved them. We’re reinforcing the joists on every level as we open it up. Electricians start rough-ins next week. And all permits are supposed to be here on Monday. We’re not doing anything against the regs since he never got permits cleared when he had this work done.”
I look at my dad. He adjusts his glasses even though he does not need them. That is his version of nodding approval. Perfect.
“Seems fine to me,” he says. “Good crew. Good prep. They are doing it right.”
Relief hits me so hard my knees nearly buckle.
“Okay,” I exhale. “Thanks, papà.”
“Do not thank me yet. Ask for numbers. Timeline. Materials.” His eyes narrow. “Or this Paul will get taken for a ride. I raised you smarter.”
“We,” comes from behind him somewhere, Mom, “Tell our son we’ll be there for the Holidays this year.”
“You’re coming here?” I ask, confused, of course, because they never have the time.
“For a month.” She calls.
“A month?” I ask because I am sure I misheard.
Dad nods as he ends the call.
I turn back to the contractor. “I need estimates. Full breakdown. Materials, labor, contingencies. And a timeline from demo to refinishing.”
The GC nods. “Already drafting it. I will send everything to you and Paul tonight. For now, demo on three wraps tomorrow. We move to two by Friday. Everything stays structural-first. Kitchen design meeting next week.”
