You know that feeling when you’re staring at the ceiling at 2am and the drywall tape is starting to peel, and all you can think about is how you’re the one who installed it? It’s kind of funny, in a pathetic way. You spend twenty years building houses for people who have spreadsheets for personalities, fixing their leaks and shoring up their foundations, but you can’t even afford a mortgage on a tool shed. You’re pushing forty, your L4 and L5 vertebrae are basically grinding into dust, and you’re just... existing in the margins. You’re a 1099 ghost. No benefits, no safety net, just the constant, low-grade dread that one bad fall off a ladder means you’re living in your truck. My old man finally kicked it last year. Lung cancer—fast and ugly, the way things usually go for guys who spent their lives breathing in asbestos and sawdust. You’d think there’d be some grand moment of clarity on the deathbed, right? Like he’d look at me and finally admit that I was the one who actually showed up for the Sunday shifts, or that he was proud I stayed in the trade. But no. He just wanted his meds and his old Westerns. Then the lawyer calls us in, and it’s like a punchline to a joke I didn't even know I was telling. reasons why the "last will and testament" was a total riot: 1. the house on 4th street — the one with the wrap-around porch I replaced for free in 2019 — goes to my sister, Sarah 2. all the land, the equity, the "family legacy" — also Sarah 3. my share: twelve thousand dollars and a box of his old fishing lures 4. the justification: "she has a family to think about" 5. the unspoken part: "he’s just a nomad, he doesn't need a foundation" It’s a bit of a dichotomy, isn't it? I’m the one with the calloused hands and the specialized knowledge of load-bearing walls, but I’m the "unstable" one. Sarah’s great, I guess. She’s got the corporate job, the husband who wears those quilted vests, the whole suburban package. She cried at the reading, saying it wasn't fair, but she didn’t exactly hand over the keys. You watch her post pictures of the "renovation" on Instagram—the one I offered to do for the cost of materials—and you realize she hired some guy named Caleb who charges ninety an hour to put in shitty, pre-fab cabinets. It’s kind of a joke. A really expensive, exhausting joke. Sometimes you just get tired of the hustle. The freelance life is a special kind of purgatory. You’re always one "payment pending" email away from total catastrophe. You work sixty hours a week so you can afford the premium on a health insurance plan that doesn't even cover your physical therapy. Meanwhile, she’s sitting in our childhood living room, probably turning my old bedroom into a home office or a place to store her Peloton. It doesn't even make me angry, really. It just makes me feel... translucent. Like I’m a temporary fixture in my own life story. I went over there last week because I’d left some of my heavy-duty clamps in the garage. She offered me tea. TEA. In the mug my mom used to use every morning before she died. I’m standing there in my work boots, covered in mortar dust and smelling like a grease fire, feeling like a goddamn trespasser in the house where I learned how to ride a bike. You look at the walls and you can still see the little pencil marks where we measured our height, and she hasn't even painted over them yet. It’s weird how a building can feel like a person who is actively choosing to ignore you. Maybe I’m just bitter. People say blood is thicker than water, but I’m pretty sure home equity is thicker than both. I’m not going to sue her or make a scene at Christmas; I’ll just keep taking the weekend "emergency" calls for the surge pay. You know that feeling when you’re praying for a freak storm? Not because you want people to get hurt, but because you need the overtime from the roof repairs just to make rent? That’s the dream, I guess. Hoping for a localized disaster so you can stay afloat for another month. I’m sitting here looking at my bank account and it’s just... flat. The twelve grand is already half-gone because the transmission on my truck decided to explode two weeks after the funeral. It’s almost poetic. The universe sees you getting a little bit of a head start and decides to trip you into a ditch. You ever feel like you’re just waiting for the credits to roll? Like the movie ended an hour ago and the theater is empty and the janitor is literally mopping under your feet, but you’re still sitting there with your empty popcorn bucket? Yeah. That. I have to be on a job site in four hours to fix a deck for some kid who made a fortune in crypto and doesn't know the difference between a Phillips head and a flathead. I’ll go there, I’ll do a perfect job, and I’ll take his money. Then I’ll come back to this apartment and do it all again tomorrow. It’s fine. I’m fine. Just kind of... tired. Maybe. I don't know. I think I’m just going to stare at the ceiling for a while longer. The tape is definitely peeling. Someone should really fix that.