Did not say anything.
Just nodded.
I nodded back.
We sat down to dinner at one o’clock.
Seven people.
My parents.
Evan.
Me.
Miguel.
My uncle Dan.
My aunt Cheryl.
The ham was good.
The mashed potatoes were lumpy, the way my mother always made them.
Halfway through the meal, my father said, “Kira, how’s the Morrison project coming?”
I looked at him.
He was asking.
Actually asking.
“Good,” I said. “We’re finishing the kitchen this week. The client wants to move in by mid-January.”
“That’s the historic home in Myers Park, right?” my mother asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’d love to see it sometime,” she said. “If that’s okay.”
I paused.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’d like that.”
Miguel glanced at me across the table.
He did not say anything, but I saw the small smile at the corner of his mouth.
Evan was quiet through most of dinner.
He did not make eye contact.
Did not contribute much to the conversation.
At three o’clock, I stood up.
“We’re heading out,” I said.
My mother looked surprised already.
“You are?”
“Yeah. Miguel and I have plans tonight.”
It was not true.
But I needed to leave on my terms.
My mother walked me to the door.
“Thank you for coming,” she said quietly.
“Thank you for asking about the project,” I said.
She smiled.
Hugged me.
I hugged her back.
Miguel and I drove home.
“That wasn’t so bad,” he said.
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t.”
It was not perfect.
But it was a start.
By June of 2026, I was standing in the shell of a new build in SouthPark, hard hat on, clipboard in hand, watching the framers set the last load-bearing wall.
The project was a big one.
Four hundred and ten thousand dollars.
A custom build for a couple relocating from New York. They wanted modern farmhouse, clean lines, an open floor plan, floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, and enough warmth that the house did not feel like a showroom.
We had broken ground in March.
The framing was ahead of schedule.
Miguel walked up beside me, adjusting his tool belt.
“Looking good,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re on track.”
The clients arrived at 10:30, a couple in their forties accompanied by their realtor, a sharp woman in her fifties who had referred them to me.
“Kira,” the realtor called, waving. “How’s it looking?”
“Right on schedule,” I said.
The clients walked through asking questions and taking photos. The wife stopped in the future living room, looking out at the view through the unfinished frame.
“This is going to be stunning,” she said.
“Wait until the windows are in,” I said. “You’ll love it.”
As they were leaving, I overheard the realtor talking to the husband.
“She’s the best in Charlotte,” the realtor said. “My neighbor used her for a renovation last year. Worth every penny.”
I smiled.
I stayed on site until four, then drove back to the office.
Whitman Build and Design had moved into a real office space six months earlier.
Small.
Just two rooms.
But it was ours.
Inside, the walls were painted a soft gray. There was a conference table, a desk for the bookkeeper, a wall of project photos, and on the shelf by the window, the crystal trophy from November.
Contractor of the Year Under 35.
It caught the afternoon light, refracting rainbows across the wall.
I looked at it for a moment.
Then I sat down at my desk and got back to work.
My mother called on a Thursday in June.
Not a Sunday.
A Thursday.
2:15 in the afternoon.
I answered, “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey. How are you?”
“Good. Just finished a site walk. What’s up?”
“Nothing urgent. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
I paused.
“Oh.”
“How’s the SouthPark project?” she asked.
“Good. Framing’s done. We’re starting on plumbing and electric next week.”
“That’s wonderful. Your father was asking about it. He wanted to know if we could come see it sometime. Would that be okay?”
I looked out the window.
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