An empty three-year old, three bedroom sits in a breezy, dirt hill neighborhood. Furniture indentations and lightly scuffed walls cling to optimistic times — fading. A new coat of paint, fresh potpourri, and freshly baked cookies inject a shot of warmth. Dumpsters and dozers whine just outside — whispering the promises of tomorrow through echoes of yesterday’s lackluster.

Little Todd’s crayon marks are just beneath the calming wall accents. Jim’s new satellite dish is proudly perched on the roof; his grill is lightly used — included. The refrigerator hums quietly in its stainless steel corner; the security system spreads its lonely green ambience. These vaulted ceilings know too much. Despairing eyes have been unkind…cruel. Where is the fault line?

Two year old Sammie sprints in ahead of his parents — mother pregnant — tired and happy, father breaming proud yet pensive. Sammie squeals with delight as he motors from room to room watching his whirring feet like a cartoon dervish. He trips and slides across the slick wood floor on his belly. Even the chatty realtor has a laugh — momentarily abandoning her cellphone, clipboard, and bangs.

Pensive Papa taps his boots outside on the deck. He peers out over the yard — not big, not tiny either — enough room to throw an out. The dozers are coming — squeezing just enough space for another picket fence.

Mom checks the baseboards, master bathroom, and appliances as her son inspects his red knees with wonder.

This could do, she thinks. If we can only hang on.

Realtor Rachel’s phone rings: another ranch on the market, “priced-to-sell”.