When Mo and Alex finally held the keys to our first home—a sunlit two‑bedroom apartment on the third floor—we felt like we’d won the lottery. The moment I set foot in that kitchen and saw dawn light spilling across the countertops, I knew this was where we’d build our life together. Although Alex and I both contributed to the mortgage, the truth was simple: this place existed because of my parents’ generosity. My dad, Mason, had handed over most of the down payment with a wink and a whispered, “Just take it, darling—no questions asked,” and my mom, Debbie, pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead as though she were sealing their love into the walls.

For three wonderful months, the apartment was ours alone. I fussed over every detail—choosing tile for the backsplash, hanging framed prints just so, and stocking the pantry with gourmet treats. Alex indulged my design flair with good humor, even as he secretly longed for a space he could stamp with his own personality. When I proposed a housewarming party, he balked, worried about the crowds. Continues…