The wind moved through the tall grass as Uncle Macho sat beside me, holding a warm cup of strong tea.
He stared at the farmhouse down the road, lost in thought.
I could tell the old house meant a lot to him, and he couldn’t let it go.
“See that house?” he said, nodding. “It didn’t build itself.”
I looked at the house.
It was old but strong, its bricks solid even after all these years.
“You don’t just throw bricks together and hope for the best,” he continued. “Each one has to be right.
Miss a crack, and the whole thing falls apart.”
His steady voice made the lesson clear. Little mistakes, if ignored, can grow.
“And the work?” He leaned forward. “You have to put in the sweat, day after day.
That house didn’t just happen. Someone worked hard for it. No shortcuts.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of his words, each one landing like bricks being laid down.
“Look at the walls,” he pointed out. “They stand strong because whoever built them knew their worth. Take yourself seriously, and others will, too. Build solid walls. Don’t let anyone tear them down.”
The wind picked up, rustling the leaves, and we sat in silence for a moment.
“Now, the roof,” he said. “That’s your word. If it leaks, everything inside gets ruined. If you say you’re going to do something, do it. Otherwise, it all falls apart when the storms come.”
I watched the farmhouse, its roof still holding strong. A promise is like that roof—it protects everything underneath.
“And the door?” I asked, curious.
“Kindness. Open it to people, but don’t be afraid to close it if they disrespect your space. That’s balance—be kind, but don’t let anyone walk all over you.”
