The House That Built a Man – Emotional Story
In this emotional short story, a man parts with the house he built by hand, leaving behind a lifetime of memories. Will this farewell bring regret, or will the walls of his beloved home reveal a final, unexpected lesson?
The House That Built a Man – Emotional Story
This story appears in: The House That Built a Man and Other Tales
I’m a man that built a house. For 2 years, I worked straight, day and night, making sure everything was just right.
Some might call me old-fashioned. But I’d like to think that I’m just a man who tried to do what’s right.
Building a house for my bride? That was what we needed, and it was what was right. So I did. For two years straight, when most guys my age were out partying or starting to establish themselves in their jobs, I worked on that house. Making sure I measured twice and cut once.
And I did it over and over again. For two long years, I built that house.
Through seasons changing, bruised knuckles, sore muscles, and a few banged-up parts, I worked steadily, building the humble 3-bedroom, 2-bath rambler that I pictured in my head. Bit by bit, that house started to take shape, with two-by-fours, trusses, and an honest day’s work poured into making it solid. This was a house that would last my family for generations. And I made sure not to spare any expense or effort.
I built a house to last, and I built it with everything I had.
I’m a man that built a house. And today, we are moving out of this house – my blood, sweat, and tears -and moving into something smaller. Times have changed, and the wife suggested maybe it’s time to move on. The kids are all grown up, and we’re nearing retirement now. The wife and I finally agreed; it just makes good financial sense to look to the future. To downsize to a smaller empty nest for these two old birds.
“Honey, I’ll be out in a minute. I just want to walk through the house one last time before we go.” I tried not to let her see me tear up as I walked through the house I’d built.
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I paused at the kitchen pantry door, my fingers tracing the lines that marked my kids’ heights over the years. Each line was a milestone, a memory of laughter and growth. I could almost hear their excited voices, “Look how tall I am, Daddy!”
In the living room, I lingered by the old table, the epicenter of countless family game nights. I could still hear the echoes of laughter, the playful banter, and the sound of dice rolling. It was here that we bonded, where we learned to win and lose with grace.
The tree in the backyard, carved with my daughter’s youthful loves, caught my eye. I remembered her running to me, tears streaming down her face after her first heartbreak, and how I held her until she realized the sun still shines. Years later, she stood under this tree as a beautiful bride, her heart finally given to the one she truly loved.
I made my way to the master bedroom, the walls that had seen it all. The arguments that faded into tender reconciliations, the whispers of dreams shared in the quiet of the night. This room held the essence of our love, resilient and ever-growing.
Descending the basement stairs, I smiled at the sight of the My Little Pony stickers still covering the wall, a colorful reminder of my children’s innocence and imagination.
“Dear, are you coming?” my wife called from the front door.
“Just one more minute, my love,” I replied, my voice thick with emotion. I looked at the house I built and felt myself tearing up a little. Even if I would never admit it to you.
With a final glance, I locked the door, entrusting our cherished memories to the next family. The movers would be coming soon, and the keys handed over to someone I hoped would appreciate this house as much as our family did.
Our home had been good to us, I realized with a bittersweet smile. I looked down at my hand touching the doorknob for the last time. It was still as strong and rugged as the day I fashioned this house, with fingers thick and calloused. Now, they just had a few more lines, carved out by the passage of time.
I used to think that I was a man that built a house. Now I realize I’ve been wrong all these years. The truth is, this is a house that built a man.
Written by Kitty Norton. © 2024 Jack and Kitty Norton. Reprinted by permission of Jack and Kitty Media Group. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.
