The Foundation for a House I’ll Never Live In

My name is Grant. I’ve been doing concrete and framing work around Seattle for fifteen years. I’m not much for talking—most of the guys on the crew know me as the one who keeps his head down and gets the pour right the first time. I never thought I’d be writing something like this, but I’ve got nobody else to tell.

I met Elena three years ago at a diner near a job site. She was a waitress, working double shifts to try and put herself through an online accounting degree. She was the most determined person I’d ever seen, but she was stuck in a rut. Her car was a death trap, her laptop was held together by tape, and she was living in a studio that didn't even have a working heater.

I’m a simple man. I don't need much. I had a good bit of money put away in a high-yield account, intended for my retirement. But every time I saw Elena looking at her textbooks with tired eyes, I just felt this need to protect her. I started small—fixing her car, buying her a new computer for "school." Then it got bigger.

She told me she wanted to move out of the city, to get a small place where she could grow a garden and finally feel like she’d made it. I found a plot of land for cheap, but it was just dirt and weeds. I told her I’d build it for her. I took out my life savings to buy the materials. I told her I’d gotten a "partnership" deal with a supplier I knew. It was a lie. I paid full price for every bag of concrete and every foot of lumber.

For eighteen months, I worked my ten-hour shift at the site, then drove an hour out to her land. I worked by floodlight until my muscles screamed. I poured the foundation. I framed the walls. I did the roofing in the middle of a November rainstorm because I didn't want the wood to warp. I put every ounce of my skill into that house. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted it to be the place where I’d finally ask her to be mine.

I spent about $80,000 on that house, not counting the thousands of hours of my own labor. Because she was worried about her "independence," I let her put the deed in her name. I trusted her. I thought we were building a life together.

When the house was finally dried in and the interior was finished, I took her there to show her the custom cabinets I’d built in the kitchen. I had a ring in my pocket. I’d been rehearsing what to say for weeks.

"Grant, it’s amazing," she said, looking around. But she didn't look at me. She was looking at her phone. "Listen, I invited someone over to see it. I hope you don't mind."

A few minutes later, a silver SUV pulled up. Out stepped Blake, a guy she’d met during her internship at a firm downtown. He was wearing a suit that probably cost as much as my truck.

"Hey, babe," he said, walking up and kissing her right in front of me. Then he looked at me and nodded. "You must be Grant. Elena said you’ve been a huge help with the construction. The craftsmanship is solid, man. Really impressive for a solo job."

Elena looked at the floor. "Blake’s firm offered me a full-time position, Grant. And... we’ve been seeing each other for a few months. Since the house is finally done, he’s going to help me with the taxes and the insurance. We’re moving in this weekend."

I didn't say a word. I couldn't. I just looked at the walls I’d framed with my own hands. I looked at the floor I’d polished until it shone.

"I'll pay you for the last few weeks of work, of course," she said, reaching into her purse. "I know it’s been a lot of your time."

I just walked to my truck. I didn't take the money. I drove away and watched that house disappear in my rearview mirror. I’m back in my small apartment now. My savings are gone. My body feels ten years older than it is. I saw a post of hers yesterday—a photo of her and Blake sitting on the porch I built, watching the sunset. She looked so happy.

I’m back to working the daily grind, pouring foundations for other people’s homes. Every time I smooth out the wet concrete, I think about that house. I built the walls that are keeping her warm while she sleeps next to another man. I built the roof that protects them from the rain. I’m just a construction worker, so I know how things are built from the ground up. I just didn't realize I was building my own cage.