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offee cup cradled in my hands, I wasn’t exactly eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help overhearing the young couple, either. A year after marriage, they were thinking of moving to a bigger apartment, and they were wrangling whether or not they could afford the rent on even one extra bedroom. They needed it. They were pregnant, and the two would be three in about seven months.

The young woman wanted to move now, while she still felt strong and able. The young man wanted to wait until his job review in April, when there was a good chance he’d get a bonus or at least a cost-of-living increase. She wanted him to be closer to work. He wanted her to be closer to medical care in emergency. They both wanted a place that felt right. But “right” had so many variables, not the least of which was all the financial uncertainty surrounding a newish job and a baby.

It was a tough call, and I felt for them, having been in a similar situation more than once when I was first married. When you’re starting out, I think it’s startling how many “what ifs” there are to the whole business of jobs and marriage and money and children and when or not when to do anything—and in time you do learn, mostly, maybe, how to make a way forward without being heedless or paralyzed with indecision.

But it takes some courage.

Successes will come.

Mistakes will be made.

When I left the coffee shop, they were still undecided, but they were smiling and holding hands across the table, gaze connected, fingers interlocked. 

I was at the keyboard later that afternoon, working on the new book, when a flicker and a fluster of something outside the window caught my eye. I am writing in the guest house at the moment, and the desk faces a window that overlooks a covered porch and the garden.  What twitchy thing had I seen? I looked out at the porch for a long minute, saw nothing unusual, and then saw the flicker and fluster again.

It was a young male house finch, flying from corner to corner under the covered porch, examining the ledges, landing on the railing or the porch light and looking at those spots from a different angle. From time-to-time, he’d land on a ledge under the porch ceiling, make a hopping turn, and peer more closely into each nook.

After about five minutes of this activity, the little house finch perched himself on the porch light and let out a long, tangled burst of song. In that small covered space, it was loud.

“Wow, kid,” I said. “You’ve got some lungs on you.”

Very quickly a little female house finch appeared on the porch railing. The male sang again, and then together, criss-crossing, they inspected the porch corners, all the spaces beneath the eves, stopping now and again, squeaking at each other occasionally. They peered into every high, covered space on that porch, even examining a little niche at the top of the porch light.

Clearly, they were looking to build a nest. The male had first entered a likely spot, made sense of it, and then called to the female, who joined him and moved through the same space together. I wonder what their chittering pips said to each other. It’s not anthropomorphizing to say that they were obviously collaborating and there was some sort of birdy deliberation going on. He searched; he called her; they searched; they communicated something. And then she flew away and, a beat later, he followed. The decision, it appeared, was hers.

I don’t know what exactly was decided between them, but ten days later, there is no nest in the corners of that porch or elsewhere. There’s not even the beginning of a nest, not a trial braid of sticks and tufts of silky whatsis to cradle their little ones. I guess they found, or are still hoping to find, a better spot somewhere else.

I hope they located a great, snug spot. We have severe storms predicted across several days this coming week, and spring winds in Texas are hard on nests and nestlings. In sixteen years, I’ve found so many nests down.

In my imagination, Mr. and Mrs. Finch found an eave a little higher, deeper, and more sheltered. Maybe they found a corner less battered by south winds. Maybe they chose a space with fewer feral cats. Perhaps, in this old neighborhood, they found something that felt right, something very like the safe space where they were born.

© Susannah Charleson, 2026