I spent $480,000 building my parents a mountain ho…

And still, standing at the end of that drive, I looked more like the person at the wrong address than anyone else there.

My mother spoke first. Not an apology. Not an explanation.

Just the slightest crease between her brows and: “Next time you come up, call first.”

The cold in that line cut sharper than the wind off the ridge. My father came out behind her, slow and steady, the same way he walked into church every Sunday morning, calm enough to insult you with it. On the console table was a neat stack of brochures.

On the kitchen island were three paper coffee cups. The pantry door was open. On the slate floor was a dry shoe print mixed with a light smear of dirt.

The house did not feel interrupted. It felt on schedule. That was the part that made me angrier than the sign.