Daddy reached into his toolbox and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He unfolded it carefully — three little stick kids holding hands with a strong daddy figure and a bright yellow sun. He tucked it into his hard hat pocket. Back to the rising frame.
Daddy hefted a heavy beam onto the frame. His arms shook. He adjusted it once — no. Twice — no. On the third try, the sun flashed off his wrench. Clank. It held.
He tapped the beam twice with his wrench. The metal was warm under his palms. He smiled to himself and kept working.
Daddy climbed into his truck. Turned the key. The engine sputtered, coughed, then settled into a rumble. The dashboard clock blinked 5:47. A lullaby hummed through the radio. He closed his eyes.
He walked up the sidewalk. The smell of dinner grew stronger with each step. Three little figures sat curled on the living room rug, soft breathing keeping time.
On the coffee table, a certificate read: 'Official Daddy: Master Builder and Story Reader.' A cookie waited beside it. Daddy picked up a book from the stack.
Daddy sat down and began to read in his rough voice. The youngest stirred, reached up, and pressed the cookie into his hand. 'You worked hard,' the little one whispered. Daddy took a bite and kept reading.
After the last page, Daddy carried each child to bed. He kissed three foreheads — one mumbled something sleep-thick and sweet. He tucked blankets and smoothed hair.
Back in the living room, Daddy sat in the rocking chair. The certificate lay framed on the table beside him. He rested his head back and let out a long breath.
The house hummed. The refrigerator kicked on downstairs. Tomorrow he would lift beams again and tap them until they held. But tonight — tonight the house was built, and it was enough.