The Treehouse

My father built me a treehouse when I was eight. It took him an entire summer. I'd sit on the grass and watch him hammer and saw, handing him nails when he asked.\n\nIt wasn't fancy. A wooden platform, four walls, a roof that leaked when it rained. A rope ladder that pinched my fingers.\n\nBut it was mine. My sanctuary. I'd spend hours up there, reading comic books, spying on the neighbors, pretending I was a pirate captain.\n\nWhen I turned sixteen, I stopped going up. It felt childish. The wood started to rot.\n\nMy father died when I was twenty-two. I didn't go back to the house for years.\n\nWhen I finally did, I walked to the backyard. The treehouse was gone. Just the tree remained, a scar in the bark where the platform used to be.\n\nI sat under that tree and wept. Not for the treehouse. For the man who built it. For the summer he spent making me a sanctuary.\n\nI have children of my own now. I'm building them a treehouse. It's not fancy either. But it's built with love. And that's all that matters.