Chapter 2: Building Dreams, Shifting Ground

When we got married, the house we bought was still a skeleton of two-by-fours and muddy trenches. We signed the papers on nothing but optimism, tracing imaginary floor plans with our boots squelching in the dirt, dreaming up rooms where there was only earth.

While we waited, we rented near Marcus’s office. It was the kind of apartment complex with a friendly doorman, a communal grill nobody touched, and early-morning joggers in IU hoodies. The mailman wore a Cubs cap year-round, which always made me smile in the middle of Indiana.

Marcus got used to the convenience. After a few months, he’d shrug and say, “What’s the rush? We’ve got everything we need right here,” like five miles was a cross-country haul.

It stung. Disappointment settled in my chest, heavy and familiar, like I should’ve known better than to hope. That house was our careful choice—my first shot at a real home, something that meant everything to me.

I remembered tracing floor plans and bickering about open shelves versus cabinets. Every corner was supposed to be a chapter of our story.

My parents split up when I was little, both remarrying and neither wanting me full-time. I bounced between Grandpa Joe’s and Grandma Carol’s, always living out of a suitcase, birthdays split between two houses. Stability was something other kids had—like braces or a golden retriever.

For as long as I could remember, I wanted my own nest—a couch that was truly mine, a wall for polaroids, a closet that never needed boxing up. Just a place to land and stay, no apologies.

But this apartment came with Mrs. Whittaker’s rules. No decorating, no nails in the walls, not even rearranging furniture without her say-so. Once, I tried to put up a floating shelf; she called within the hour—she’d spotted the drill on her security cam and left me a voicemail listing the violations A to Z.

It never felt like home. Every scuff that wasn’t ours, every stubborn stain I couldn’t scrub out, reminded me I was living in someone else’s story.

Marcus insisted his job was demanding, that living close to the office made things easier. He’d leave at dawn, come home late with takeout and tired apologies. I learned to count his footsteps in the hallway.

He really did work hard. That year, he landed a major project, got promoted, and suddenly the CEO was tossing his name around like confetti. My friends joked I’d married up by accident.

So, even though it hurt, I agreed. I told myself it was temporary, that marriage meant compromise. I clung to the hope we’d settle in the home we built together—eventually.

Then, out of nowhere, Marcus changed his tune. He came home after a night out, cheeks pink from beer, and told me about a friend’s housewarming. His friend’s wife painted the walls herself, hung a swing on the porch—Marcus described it like he’d seen fire for the first time.

"A house of your own is always best," he said. "It’s like… walking in and smelling coffee that’s only ever brewed in your own kitchen. That’s what home is."

He wrapped his arm around my waist and kissed my forehead. For a second, the old hurt loosened its grip. I wanted to believe him again.

"This is our first little nest. We have to treat it with care," he said, squeezing my hand. And I could almost see it—curtains fluttering, sunlight spilling onto our breakfast table.