Jack sat on the edge of his old bed with his back against the headboard and the room mostly dark around him. The only light came from the bedside lamp, throwing a warm circle across the blanket and the leather-bound diary resting in his lap. He had owned the journal for years and usually wrote in it only when something felt too complicated to sort out in his head. Tonight definitely qualified. He opened to a fresh page, clicked his pen, stared at the date for several seconds, and finally began to write.
October 10, 2012
I finally bought a house.
I'm nineteen years old, and I bought a house with money I earned myself. Two stories, four bedrooms, a big open kitchen, a living room with enough space for more furniture than I'll probably ever need, a separate office, a backyard with a pool, a small guesthouse, and a garage that Phil insists is "perfect for future dad projects," which feels like a threat disguised as enthusiasm. The place has tall windows, light stone floors downstairs, warm wood upstairs, wide hallways, a balcony overlooking the backyard, and enough space that it somehow feels impressive without becoming ridiculous. It's also in the same neighborhood as the Dunphys, because apparently subtlety has never been one of Mr. Dunphy's strengths.
I should probably start with Mr. Dunphy.
A few months ago, I casually mentioned that I was thinking about buying my own place someday. I wasn't even seriously looking yet. I think I said something like, "Maybe I should start thinking about getting a house." Then there was the situation where I ran away when Haley asked me if I wanted her to move in with me. Now that I think about it, it was really funny.
Anyway, Mr. Dunphy heard, "Please turn this into your personal mission."
From that moment on, the man became unstoppable.
He showed me houses with pools, houses with theaters, houses with views, houses with terrible kitchens, houses with amazing kitchens, houses that looked like somebody had designed them while suffering from a severe addiction to marble, and one house that had six bathrooms for reasons neither of us understood.
Forty houses.
Oh yeah. I counted them alright. Every one of those houses had some faults or termite infestation. Heck, one even had a beehive inside the storage room.
By house twenty-seven, I started suspecting something.
By house thirty-five, I knew something was happening.
Then he brought me here.
He acted completely normal when we pulled up, which was the first sign that something wasn't normal at all. He kept saying things like, "Great neighborhood," and, "Very safe," and, "Fantastic resale value," while avoiding mentioning that I could practically walk to his house without finishing a full song on my phone.
I looked at him after the tour and asked, "How long have you been saving this one?"
Phil tried to look offended while straightening his jacket. "Saving what one?"
I pointed toward the window because I could almost see the Dunphy street from where we were standing. "This one."
He lasted about three seconds before smiling.
Well, I know what he was trying to do.
He wanted us to live nearby after Haley and I got married. Like no matter how tough or cool he behaves, he's still a dad at the end of the day. And according to Mr Dunphy, "Close families stay close." Then he accidentally mentioned future grandchildren before immediately pretending he'd said "future gardening."
I let him get away with it.
Mostly because the house really is perfect.
The price was reasonable considering the neighborhood, the inspection came back clean, the layout works, the backyard is great, and there's enough room for guests, family, work, and whatever my life becomes later.
So I bought it.
Getting the house ready took longer than buying it.
I thought the difficult part would be the paperwork, inspections, contracts, insurance, and all the boring legal things that come with spending an unreasonable amount of money on a building. Apparently, that was only the beginning. Once the place officially belonged to me, I realized that an empty house is basically just an expensive collection of rooms until somebody fills it with enough stuff to make it feel lived in.
So that's what I've been doing for the last few weeks whenever I had time.
Furniture, lighting, appliances, beds, kitchen equipment, televisions, security, internet, rugs, curtains, office furniture, outdoor furniture, and approximately a thousand smaller things I didn't know people needed until somebody asked me which version I wanted.
I hired people for most of it because I know my limits. If somebody had left the entire interior design process to me, I would've bought a giant television, three comfortable couches, a refrigerator full of drinks, and then wondered why every other room looked abandoned.
Mr. Dunphy helped whenever he could, although he was mostly responsible for getting me into this situation in the first place.
Jay handled the closets. He came over himself, took one look upstairs, and started talking about wasted space, poor shelving depth, lighting, drawer placement, and something he called vertical efficiency. I nodded along while understanding maybe sixty percent of what he was saying, and a few days later he had people measuring everything and replacing half the interiors.
The finished closets are honestly incredible, though I don't plan on telling him that too enthusiastically because I have a feeling he'd interpret praise as permission to redesign every storage space I own for the rest of my life.
Everything else finally came together this week. The lighting was finished, the kitchen was stocked with the basics, the security system went live, the internet was installed, and the last contractor packed up this afternoon. For the first time since I bought the place, I walked through it without somebody carrying tools, asking for a signature, or explaining why one tiny change apparently required another invoice.
The house was completely quiet, and for a while I just wandered through it.
I stood in the kitchen and imagined cooking there with Haley. I walked through the living room and pictured movie nights snuggling with Haley. I went upstairs, looked at the bedroom, then stepped into the office where most of my books and writing stuff will eventually go. The whole time, I kept thinking the same thing.
This is mine.
I bought this house with money I earned myself, and I should've felt nothing except proud. I did feel proud, because nineteen-year-old me owns a house that most people would probably dream about, and that's ridiculous when I actually stop and think about it.
Then I stood in the bedroom for a little too long and realized that buying a house isn't the same thing as moving into one.
That's where everything started feeling strange.
Mom and Dad know I bought it. There was no reason to hide that part, and Dad even said property was a smart place to put some of my money instead of letting everything sit around doing nothing. Mom asked what I planned to use it for, and I gave her a vague answer about having my own place when I wanted privacy or needed somewhere convenient between projects.
They don't know I'm actually planning to move out.
I haven't told them that part yet, and I don't really understand why it's bothering me this much.
I'm nineteen and I got a successful career. Moving out is normal. Plenty of people leave home younger than this, and I'm not even going far. I could drive back here whenever I wanted. Nothing about the situation is dramatic enough to justify the feeling sitting in my chest tonight, yet every time I imagine packing my clothes and sleeping there permanently, something inside me pulls backward.
I think it's because home finally feels like home again.
There were years when that wasn't true.
Mom and Dad worked constantly when I was younger, and I got used to the house being quiet. They were always traveling, taking meetings, dealing with deadlines, or coming home so late that I barely saw them. I knew they loved me, but knowing that didn't stop the place from feeling empty.
Back then, I handled it badly. I went out too much, partied too much, stayed away whenever I could, and convinced myself I preferred being independent. The truth is that I hated feeling like nobody had time to notice whether I came home or not.
Things changed over the last few years.
Somehow, we became a family again in a way we hadn't been for a long time. Dad started coming home more. Mom did too. We started eating together, talking about stupid things, watching movies, arguing over what to order, and just existing in the same room without everyone being pulled toward somewhere else.
I didn't realize how much that mattered until I started thinking about leaving.
After I've been away filming for weeks or months, coming back here is still one of my favorite feelings. I walk through the door, hear Mom somewhere in the house, hear Dad complaining about work, smell food from the kitchen, and something in my brain finally understands that the day is over.
I don't have to be an actor here. I don't have to be a writer, producer, businessman, or whatever title somebody decides to attach to my name that week. I'm just their son, and apparently I've become more attached to that than I thought.
That's what scares me.
I know moving out isn't going to destroy anything. Logically, I understand that our family isn't being held together because I sleep in this bedroom every night. Mom and Dad changed because they wanted to change, and they rebuilt this family because they finally realized what all of us were losing.
Still, there's a part of me that keeps asking what happens after I leave.
Will Dad start working later because I'm not coming home for dinner? Will Mom start staying away more because there isn't any reason to rush back? Will the house slowly become quiet again?
I hate even writing that because it makes me sound like I think I'm responsible for keeping everyone together. I know I'm not that important to the structure of two grown adults' lives, and I know they don't need me sitting upstairs to remember they love each other.
The fear doesn't care about logic.
That's probably why I haven't told them.
I keep thinking I'll do it tomorrow, then tomorrow comes and I decide another day would be better. Maybe I'm waiting for some perfect moment where I can say, "Hey, I'm moving out," and somehow nobody feels anything complicated afterward.
That moment probably doesn't exist.
The worst part is that I want to move into the new house. I really do.
I can picture my life there too easily. Haley sitting on the kitchen counter while I'm cooking, stealing food and denying it. Her clothes slowly invading closet space she technically doesn't own. Dad visiting and pretending he only came over because he needed to discuss something. Mom rearranging something because she thinks my version looks wrong. Mr. Dunphy showing up with some tool or project I never asked for.
I can imagine birthdays there, dinners, friends staying over, holidays, and maybe years from now, a family of my own.
That future makes me happy.
Then I look around this room and feel guilty for wanting it.
I thought buying my first house would feel like finally becoming independent. Instead, it feels like standing between two lives and wanting both of them at the same time.
I don't want to stay here forever just because I'm afraid of change, and I don't want to walk away from something we finally fixed because growing up says I'm supposed to.
Maybe tomorrow I'll tell them.
Maybe I'll sit downstairs, say it properly, and deal with whatever comes after.
Or maybe I'll find another excuse and wait one more day because apparently buying a house was easier than telling my parents I plan to live in it.
I don't know which version of tomorrow is going to happen yet, and that's probably the part bothering me most tonight.
--[AN: This is it for the week. 5 chs quota completed. I'll take a small break to stock up. See you soon.] [Massive Spoilers. Upcoming chs names][1]
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[1] Ch: 110 [The Starbucks Theory of Family] Ch: 111 [Between Pages and Pictures] Ch: 112 [The Foundation Was Solid] Ch: 113 [One Surprise Too Many] Ch: 114 [And Then There Were Babies] Ch: 115 & 116 [Expecting the Unexpected] Ch: 117 [The Next Generation] Ch: 118 [One Ring] Ch: 119 [Haley Dunphy’s $14.5 Million Problem]