Nina
The letter arrived on Monday.
Not by email. Not by phone. A physical letter, delivered by courier, in a thick cream envelope with a law firm's name embossed in gold. Caleb held it in his left hand, staring at it like it might bite him.
"Are you going to open it?" Nina asked.
"I don't want to."
"I know."
He turned it over. The seal was already broken — the courier had opened it, maybe, or someone at the law firm. He pulled out the pages. Three of them. Dense with legalese.
Nina watched his face as he read. His expression didn't change — not at first. Then his jaw tightened. His right hand, resting on the table, began to shake.
"What does it say?"
He set the letter down. Pushed it toward her. "Read it yourself."
Nina picked it up. The language was formal, cold. Petition for conservatorship. Lack of capacity. Diminished mental faculties. The board was asking the court to appoint a guardian to manage Caleb's affairs, including his ownership stake in the company.
"They're saying you can't make decisions for yourself," Nina said.
"That's what it says."
"That's not true."
"It doesn't matter if it's true. It matters if they can convince a judge." He stood up. Walked to the window. The ocean was gray today, choppy, whitecaps breaking against the rocks. "They're going to try to take everything. The company. The house. The money. Everything I have."
"They can't take the treehouse."
Caleb almost laughed. "The treehouse isn't in my name. It's just wood and nails."
"It's yours. You built it."
"They'll say I didn't. They'll say you built it. Or that I paid someone. They'll say my hands couldn't have done the work."
Nina stood up. Walked to him. "Your hands did the work. I watched you. I held the ladder."
"That doesn't matter in a courtroom."
"It matters to me."
He turned to look at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, tired. "What if they're right? What if I can't make decisions for myself anymore? What if the Parkinson's has changed me more than I know?"
"Has it?"
"I don't know. That's the problem. How do you know if you're losing your mind? The people who are losing it don't know. That's what makes it losing it."
Nina put her hand on his arm. "You're not losing your mind, Caleb. You're scared. There's a difference."
"You and your differences."
"Someone has to point them out."
He leaned into her touch. Just a little. Just enough. "What do I do?"
"First, you call your lawyer. Then you call your mother. Then you build the fourth wall."
"The fourth wall?"
"You have three walls. You need four. A treehouse with three walls isn't a treehouse. It's a very small porch."
Despite everything, he smiled. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm practical. There's a difference."
---
The lawyer's name was David Kim.
He was young — younger than Caleb — with sharp eyes and a calm voice. Nina sat on the couch while Caleb talked to him on speakerphone, her hands wrapped around a mug of cold coffee.
"They're filing for conservatorship," David said. "It's aggressive. They must think you're going to fight them."
"I am going to fight them."
"Then we need to prove you're capable. That you're making your own decisions. That the Parkinson's hasn't affected your judgment."
"How do we prove that?"
"We need doctors. Reports. Testimony from people who see you every day. People who can say you're of sound mind."
Caleb looked at Nina. "I have a nurse."
"A nurse is good. A nurse who can testify to your daily functioning. Your decision-making. Your ability to live independently."
"I'm not living independently. She lives with me."
"That's fine. It doesn't have to be independent. It has to be competent."
Nina set down her mug. "I'll testify."
Caleb's eyes met hers. "You don't have to."
"I know I don't have to. I want to."
David's voice came through the speaker. "Who else? Family? Friends?"
"My mother."
"Good. Anyone else?"
Caleb thought about it. "The child life specialist at the hospital. Jenny. She's seen me with the kids. She knows why I'm building the treehouse."
"That's excellent. We'll get statements from all of them." Papers shuffled on David's end. "In the meantime, don't do anything rash. Don't sign anything. Don't agree to anything. Let me handle the board."
"How long will it take?"
"Weeks. Maybe months. These things move slowly."
"I don't have months."
"You have as long as it takes. That's the system."
The call ended. Caleb set the phone down and stared at the ceiling.
"Weeks," he said. "Maybe months."
"We have time."
"Do we?"
"We have today. And tomorrow. And probably the day after that." She stood up. "Now come on. The fourth wall isn't going to build itself."
---
They worked through lunch.
The fourth wall was the front wall — the one with the opening for the door. Caleb measured twice, cut once, and hammered each nail with his left hand. His right hand held the wood in place, trembling, but holding.
Nina handed him the pieces. Held the ladder. Watched.
"You're staring," he said.
"I'm supervising."
"You're staring."
"I'm admiring. There's a difference."
He paused, hammer in the air. "Admiring?"
"The way you work. The way you don't give up. The way your left hand has learned to do what your right hand can't." She shrugged. "That's admirable."
Caleb's cheeks flushed. "You're trying to make me mess up."
"I'm trying to make you smile."
He smiled. "There. Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
He hammered the last nail. The fourth wall was up. The treehouse had four walls now — a box, really, but a box that was starting to look like a room.
"Next is the roof," he said.
"Next is the roof."
"And then the window."
"And then the window."
"And then the railing so we don't die."
"That too."
He climbed down from the ladder. His legs were shaking, but he was grinning — a wide, unguarded grin that made Nina's heart ache.
"We did it," he said.
"You did it."
"We did it together."
She nodded. "Yeah," she said. "We did."
---
That afternoon, Caleb called his mother.
Nina sat on the deck, out of earshot, but she could hear his voice through the glass. Soft. Steady. The voice he used when he was scared but didn't want to show it.
When he came outside, his eyes were red.
"She's coming," he said. "Tomorrow. She's going to stay for a few days."
"Good."
"She said she's going to testify. If it comes to that."
"It might."
"I know." He sat down next to her on the deck chair. The sun was low, casting long shadows across the grass. "She also said she's proud of me. For fighting."
"Are you proud of you?"
He thought about it. "I'm proud of the treehouse. I'm proud of the hospital project. I'm not proud of the company — not anymore. I let it become something I didn't recognize."
"You can't control everything, Caleb."
"I used to think I could. That was the problem." He looked at his hands. "I thought if I worked hard enough, planned enough, controlled enough, I could stop bad things from happening. But I couldn't stop my father from dying. I couldn't stop the Parkinson's. I couldn't stop Vanessa from showing up with that letter."
"No," Nina said. "You couldn't."
"But I can build a treehouse. I can call my mother. I can sit on this deck with you and watch the sun set." He turned to her. "That's something."
"It's everything."
---
Eleanor arrived the next morning.
She came with bags of groceries, a suitcase, and a determination that filled the glass house like sunlight. She hugged Caleb for a long time, then hugged Nina, then started unpacking the groceries.
"I'm making a lasagna," she announced. "And a salad. And garlic bread. And pie."
"Mom, that's too much food."
"There's no such thing as too much food. There's only not enough people to eat it."
Caleb looked at Nina. "She's going to feed us until we burst."
"Probably."
"Are you okay with that?"
Nina thought about her own mother, three thousand miles away in Chicago. About the way she'd always said eat more, you're too thin and stay longer, it's been too long.
"Yeah," Nina said. "I'm okay with that."
---
They worked on the roof that afternoon.
Caleb couldn't lift the plywood sheets by himself — his right hand couldn't grip, and his left wasn't strong enough. So Eleanor held one end, and Nina held the other, and Caleb climbed the ladder to nail them in place.
"Be careful," Eleanor called.
"I'm always careful."
"You're never careful. You climbed a tree when you were five and fell out of it."
"I was five."
"You were reckless. You're still reckless."
Caleb looked down at her. "Mom, I'm thirty-six years old."
"And you're on a ladder with a hammer. That's reckless at any age."
Nina laughed. She couldn't help it. Eleanor looked at her and smiled.
"He gets it from his father," Eleanor said. "The stubbornness. The refusal to ask for help."
"I heard that," Caleb called from the ladder.
"You were supposed to."
The first sheet of plywood went on. Then the second. Then the third. The roof wasn't finished — it would take days, maybe a week — but it was started.
Caleb climbed down. His hands were shaking, but his face was flushed with pride.
"It's a real treehouse now," he said.
"It's a real treehouse," Nina agreed.
"It has four walls and a roof."
"It has four walls and a roof."
"And a ladder."
"And a ladder."
Eleanor put her arm around Caleb's shoulders. "Your father would have loved this."
Caleb leaned into her. "I know."
"He would have said, 'That's my boy.'"
"He would have said, 'Took you long enough.'"
Eleanor laughed. "That too."
---
That night, they ate lasagna at the kitchen table.
The three of them. Eleanor at one end, Caleb at the other, Nina in the middle. The glass walls reflected the lamplight, turning the ocean outside into a dark mirror.
"Tell me about the hospital," Eleanor said. "The treehouse. The girl with the pink scarf."
Caleb set down his fork. "Her name is Lily. I found out from Dr. Okonkwo. She's eight years old. Leukemia. She's been in the hospital for six months."
"Six months is a long time."
"It's a lifetime, at that age." He looked at Nina. "She asked for a telescope and a bell. So she could see the stars and ring it when she's happy."
Eleanor's eyes glistened. "You're going to give her those things."
"I'm going to try."
"You're going to succeed." Eleanor reached across the table and took his hand. "You're your father's son. You don't know how to fail."
Caleb squeezed her hand. "I learned from the best."
"The best?"
"My mother. She never failed. Not once. Not even when things were hard."
Eleanor's tears spilled over. She wiped them with her free hand. "I failed plenty. I just didn't let you see it."
"You hid it."
"That's what mothers do. We hide the hard parts so our children don't have to carry them." She looked at Nina. "You'll understand someday. If you have children. Or if you love someone the way a mother loves a child."
Nina felt something shift in her chest. "I'm starting to understand."
Eleanor smiled. "Good. That's the first step."
---
After dinner, Eleanor went to bed.
Caleb and Nina sat on the deck, like they always did. The stars were out, scattered across the sky like salt on dark cloth.
"Your mother is amazing," Nina said.
"She's something."
"She loves you so much."
"I know." He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "I don't deserve her."
"Everyone deserves their mother."
"Not everyone. Some people have mothers who hurt them. Who leave. Who don't know how to love."
Nina thought about Marcus's mother. The way she'd sat in the waiting room, alone, her hands empty. The way she'd put her head on Nina's shoulder because there was no one else.
"My mother is three thousand miles away," Nina said. "In Chicago. We talk every Sunday. She tells me she loves me. I tell her I love her. And then we hang up, and I don't call again until the next Sunday."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm scared. Because if I call more often, I'll have to tell her the truth. That I'm not okay. That I left nursing because I couldn't save a boy. That I'm living in a glass house with a man who's losing his hands."
Caleb was quiet for a moment. "That's a lot of truth."
"It is."
"Maybe you should tell her anyway."
"Maybe." She looked at the stars. "Maybe someday."
"Someday is today."
She turned to look at him. His face was half in shadow, half in starlight.
"You're quoting me," she said.
"I'm learning from you." He reached over and took her hand. His right hand, shaking. "Call her, Nina. Not because you have to. Because she loves you. And because you deserve to be loved."
Nina felt tears prick her eyes. "You're making a lot of demands for a man who can't hammer a nail straight."
"I can hammer nails straight."
"Most of them."
"Most of them is enough."
She laughed — a wet, shaky sound. "Okay," she said. "I'll call her. Tomorrow."
"Good."
"And you'll call your lawyer?"
"Already did."
"And you'll build the window?"
"Tomorrow. After breakfast."
"And you'll —"
"Nina." He squeezed her hand. "One thing at a time."
She nodded. "One thing at a time."
---
They sat in silence for a while. The ocean was quiet, just a soft hush against the rocks. The stars seemed to get brighter, or maybe their eyes were just adjusting to the dark.
"I'm scared," Caleb said.
"Of what?"
"Of the conservatorship. Of losing the company. Of waking up one day and not being able to hold a hammer at all."
"Those are big fears."
"They're big fears."
"But you're still here."
"I'm still here."
"And you're still building."
"I'm still building."
Nina turned to face him. "Then the fears don't win. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
Caleb looked at her. The starlight was in his eyes, making them glow.
"You're remarkable," he said.
"You've said that."
"I'll say it again. You're remarkable."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. Just for a moment. Just enough to feel the warmth of him through the blanket.
"So are you," she said.