He was not documenting progress.
He was collecting footage.
When I came down for water around noon, sweating and lightheaded, he waved the phone in my direction.
“Don’t worry, honey, this is great content.”
My mother laughed from the kitchen doorway. “Maybe we’ll make you famous.”
I smiled the way I had learned to smile with them over the years. Mouth only, minimal teeth, don’t invite another remark.
“You could make me useful,” I said. “I need someone to hold the ladder while I get the next stack up.”
Dad took another sip of his iced tea. “I don’t want to be in your way.”
That afternoon I peeled back the old shingles over the kitchen and found two soft spots near the vent stack. Not a catastrophe, just the kind of additional problem that extends a job by a few hours and requires the particular patience of a person who has accepted that complications are part of what they signed up for. I cut out the damaged sections, replaced the plywood, sealed the edges, ran fresh underlayment, and started laying the first courses.
