Later that morning, I was at the new house, waiting for the electrician. The place was a mess—dusty floors, peeling wallpaper, and the unmistakable smell of mildew. But it had potential, and I was determined to bring it back to life.
“Hey, Eliza!” came a voice from the doorway. It was Mr. Thompson, our electrician. A burly man in his fifties with a friendly smile, he had become a familiar face over the past few weeks.
“Morning, Mr. Thompson,” I greeted him. “Ready to tackle the wiring?”
“Absolutely,” he said, setting down his toolkit. We went over the plans, discussing everything from outlet placements to lighting fixtures. I loved this part—the planning, the vision, the transformation. It was what I was good at.
Just as we were wrapping up, Noah showed up. “Hey, honey.” He hugged me and gave me a kiss on my cheek. “I’m going to take some photos to send Dad, then I’ll help you measure those windows, okay?”
“Great timing! I was just about to start with that.” I went upstairs. A few minutes later, I heard something that made me seethe!
Sam’s unmistakable baritone was echoing up through the vents. He must’ve decided to come check on the place himself, the control freak. “We need to talk about the budget for permanent changes,” he was saying. “Anything over $5,000 needs my approval before you kids go ahead with it. That includes things like tile colors and light fixtures.”
I felt my blood boil. This was my project, my vision. And here he was, undermining me in my future home! This was the last straw!
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