I checked the bathrooms: mold, black patches spreading behind the toilet and along the tiles. The bathtub drain was clogged with something I didn’t want to identify.
Abby’s old room was a disaster—piles of clothes, half-burned candles, broken jewelry, empty cups, and notebooks with scribbles about energy fields.
I didn’t touch anything.
Ben and Clover’s stuff was all over the house—boxes, bags, toys, shoes, wrappers. They treated the place like a hotel room with a cleaning staff.
I stood in the hallway and looked at everything with one thought running through my head. This wasn’t a home. This was a sinking ship patched with duct tape and excuses.
But now it was my sinking ship.
I spent the rest of the day taking photos, writing notes, and planning. The renovation wouldn’t be small. It wouldn’t be cheap. It wouldn’t be quick.
But it would be mine.
Six figures at minimum. Months of work. Most of it done by me. And unlike every project in my childhood, none of these repairs were optional.
The house was falling apart. They let it happen. Now I had to rebuild it.
Not for them. Not for nostalgia. For ownership, for control, for a future that wasn’t chained to chaos.
Once the paperwork was finalized and the mortgage was paid off, I started the renovation.
I treated it like a full-scale job site: no shortcuts, no patchwork, no putting things off.
The house needed more than repairs. It needed rebuilding from the inside out.
The first two weeks were demolition. I ripped up old carpet, removed rotten baseboards, and tore out the sagging kitchen cabinets.
Underneath everything was water damage, mold patches, and cheap fixes Ronald had done years earlier that barely held anything together.
I kept working sunrise to sundown. Ben didn’t lift a finger.
Most mornings, he was already on the couch gaming by the time I started hauling debris to the dumpster. His headset stayed glued to his ears.
He acted annoyed when I passed through the living room carrying tools.
Clover sat beside him most days, scrolling through her phone or giving me comments about the house layout like she was the project manager.
“You shouldn’t knock down that wall,” Clover would say. “It closes the space.”
Or, “The kitchen needs softer colors, something warm for the family.”
She said family like the house belonged to her.
Abby was no better. Her room was next to mine. And every time I used a power tool, she came out complaining the noise was messing with her energy healing sessions.
She’d wave her hands around like she was pushing invisible air and say she needed quiet time to recharge.
The first major project was the roof. I tore off every old shingle, replaced the damaged plywood, and installed a brand-new system.
After that came the HVAC. The old unit rattled like a dying engine. I put in a modern system with better ventilation and zoning.
Ronald stood next to me while I worked, acting like he understood it all.
“I would have done that years ago,” he said once, arms crossed. “Just needed the right timing.”
Cassandra chimed in whenever she could.
“Make sure you leave room in the kitchen for the island, but not too big, and don’t block the walkway.”
“And Ben needs space to prepare snacks.”
She said it like Ben actually used the kitchen.
When I installed the new electrical system, Ronald felt the need to critique everything.
“Those outlets are too high,” he said. “Ben won’t like bending down.”
He didn’t mention that Ben hadn’t moved from the couch in four hours.
Once the structure was stable, I started on the interior.
New floors throughout the house. Thick planks, clean lines, nothing cheap. The difference was immediate.
The place looked cleaner already.
Clover followed me room to room as if I asked for her input.
“This wall should be blue. This one needs shelving. The living room needs more seating for everyone.”
She said it confidently like she owned the house.