Dad is already awake, his sturdy van parked beside the house, tools glinting in the open back. The scent of damp earth and fresh grass mingles with the faint tang of engine oil. I watch from the kitchen window, a mug of cocoa warming my hands, as he wipes his hands on his overalls and surveys the land with satisfaction.
Dad crouches beneath a radiator, sleeves rolled up, hands blackened from grease. I sit cross-legged nearby, mesmerized by the way he twists and turns the pipes, coaxing stubborn fittings into shape. "You see, every problem has a solution. Sometimes you just need the right angle," he says, offering me a knowing wink.
Dad's[/@ch_1] team gathers around his van, blueprints spread over the hood. Laughter and shouts mingle with the distant whinny of a horse.]
Dad stands at the center, barking orders with a mix of sternness and good humor. "Alright, Jamie, you’re on the east wing. Sarah, check the main valve—remember last winter’s fiasco?" His colleagues nod and scatter, clearly respecting his expertise. I feel a burst of pride watching him command the team, every gesture confident and sure.
Dad works through it all: thawing frozen pipes in biting cold, calming floods with steady hands in the summer storms, and overseeing sales and estimates when the air smells of new grass. I learn the rhythm of the year by his side, each job a lesson in perseverance and gratitude.
Dad[/@ch_1] heads toward the porch, wiping sweat from his brow.]
He drops into an old chair, boots kicked off, stretching his back with a contented sigh. I sit beside him, watching the last rays of sun paint the stables and the pool. "I love that you're a plumber, Dad. You built all this with your hands," I say quietly.
Dad squeezes my shoulder, his voice warm with pride. "Everything we have, it’s ours because we worked for it. Remember that, no matter what you do," he murmurs. I lean against him, proud and grateful, knowing that while his desk may be a van and his work gritty, his heart is the foundation of our home.
