It was almost three years ago when we moved back into this house, which my father built by the sweat of his brow. What we first saw when we got here in 2005 would have made him cry, and I am still thankful that it was just Sam and his brothers who saw the terrible disrepair into which the entire property had fallen. This house, built in the late sixties, one among many designed by a young fellow named Lacson, resembled an unkempt bodega more than it did the high-ceilinged home where three kids ran around trying to evade their yayas wanting to give them a bath.

Worse luck was that we had contracted this “architect” (who shall then, now and forever be nameless) who was appareantly after getting as much cash as he could out from us more than he was at restoring this structure to its original state. How I wished then that we know of companies like American Home Shield then we wouldn’t have been in this bind. In my opinion, a service that watches over my house, anticipates areas of potential trouble and regularly making sure that everything from the waterpumps to the bedroom doorknobs is in good working condition, would have saved us more in the long run and would have kept the house from falling into this condition.

It’s been three years and we’re still a few renovations to go before this house is restored to the way I remembered it when I was a little girl. A little bit at a time is all we can afford at the moment. But we’re getting there, bit by bit. (Uh, Sam, where’s that lotto ticket I bought yesterday?)

Fixing a hole

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