Mom told us that Dad listened to her speech, stood up, and just walked out. She broke down crying right there in his office until he came back a little while later, told her he just quit too, and that, “I don’t know where we’re going to end up, but will you marry me on the way?”
Mom said yes to his proposal... after beating him up for scaring the crap out of her.
Anyway, it turned out Dad only became a lawyer because his parents pushed him into it. He grew up working construction jobs with Grandpa, but Grandpa wanted more for his only son than a life doing back-breaking work for not enough pay. But with me on the way, Dad went back to his dream job—builder and architect.
And he started by draining his lawyer savings and building his pregnant bride her dream home in Rocky Springs.
I smiled as that home crested the horizon, welcoming us back. No one could miss the Hunter House. In a sea of cookie-cutter sameness, it was the oddball of the pack.
My mom, Renee Hunter, was a massive book nerd and fantasy-lover. It had always been her fangirl dream to live in a hobbit hole, so Dad made it happen.
We’re talking the big, circular doors. The sloped, mossy thatched roof. The cozy wood-and-stone interior with a big roaring fireplace, rain showers, huge circular bay windows in every room with cushioned bottoms that we’d curl up in on rainy days, and book nooks in all our bedrooms—designed just for us.
Mom’s nook had dragons, elves, and wizards painted and carved into the wall. My nook had hearts and goofy meet-cutes because I loved romance, and Dora’s nook had spy glasses, fingerprints, and crime scene tape painted on the bookshelf because she was just starting to get into mystery books when Dad built hers.
After we lost them, the social worker suggested I sell the house. She said a home like this would clean up on the housing market, and I could take the money to buy us a little apartment near NYU. The money would tide us over and pay for tuition, so I wouldn’t have to drop out for good.
It was solid, practical advice, but I wouldn’t have done that in a million years.
My dad built this home with his bare hands. He poured all of his love for Mom, then me, and then Dora into every beam and floorboard. I was born in the living room because Mom fancied herself a homebirth, and Dora was carried in over the threshold from the hospital because never again.
Nearly every happy memory we made as a family, we made within those four walls. The Hunter Hobbit House—as dubbed by our neighbors—might as well be part of the family too. I would never sell it.
A truth that hung heavy over my heart as Dora ran on ahead and I paused to empty the mailbox.
“Final notice, final notice, final notice,” I whispered, rubbing my temples. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what you said the last time.”
My attempt at levity didn’t loosen the band around my chest. Who knew why I even bothered?
Yes, my parents paid for the land and the house in cash—which saved me from having to pay off a mortgage, but didn’t help with all the other costs of running a home.
There were the utility bills, the property taxes, insurance, the maintenance requirements, the HOA fees, and all of that’s before I’ve fed, dressed, and paid for all of my sister’s school supplies and activities. The truth was all of the money my parents saved and left for us was wiped out a long time ago. Adora was in the hospital for two months. Everything went into paying her medical bills. When she was discharged, the only asset we had was the house, and as I told the social worker, selling it was a non-starter. My sister wasn’t going to lose her parents and her home at the same time.
Which left me working my butt off for four years to make ends meet, but a waitress working out of the Rocky Road Grill could only make her wage and tips go so far.
“Char?”
I snapped up, quickly shoving the bills in my purse. “Yeah?”
“You coming?” she called, laughing. “The ice cream cake must be melting, and those off-key ‘Happy Birthday’ lyrics aren’t going to badly sing themselves.”
My smile came bouncing back. There would be no frowns or stress on my sister’s big day. All of that could wait until tomorrow.
“Coming!”
I tackled her running inside, making her tickle me away when I peppered her face with kisses. “Don’t get a big head, D. You might be eighteen, but I will always be your sister. My no-boundaries kiss attacks are just part of the deal.”
“Consider me warned.”
I shook my head at her eye roll, smile tugging at my lips. It was wild how much she looked like Mom when she made that face. Our mother was super pretty, so when everyone saidDora’s long, curly golden locks, freckled nose, green eyes, and crooked smile made her look just like Mom, they were for sure complimenting her.
As for me, Dad’s genes won the genetic race. My hair was raven black to Dora’s blonde. Mine was straight where hers was curly. I was pale while she was tanned and freckled, and my smile wasn’t crooked, but it did unleash two dimples in my plump cheeks just like Dad’s.
Honestly, Dora and I couldn’t look less alike, but since when did that matter? Sisters were sisters.
Shooting ahead of her, I burst into the dining room—throwing my hands up. “Surprise!”
Dora poked her head in, and her jaw dropped. Laid out on the dining table was a veritable feast of crab cakes, endive and arugula salad, lobster pot pie, braised short ribs, and strawberry cheesecake drizzled with chocolate, topped with an eighteen-shaped candle—and all of it arranged on Mom and Dad’s wedding china.
