The fence was older than the house and knew it. Its boards leaned just enough to complain when the wind pushed through the yard, the wood dry and thirsty under the afternoon sun. A half-dozen paint cans sat open in the grass, lids flipped back, brushes already crusting at the edges. The smell of fresh white paint hung sharp in the air, cutting through the sweetness of cut grass.

“This,” Mark said, rolling his shoulders like a foreman preparing a crew, “should take no more than two hours if everyone works together.”

“Two hours,” Lily echoed brightly, already tying her hair up. She had paint on her cheek and hadn’t even dipped a brush yet. “I love how optimistic you are, honey.”

Mark smiled, handing her a roller.

Seventeen-year-old Nora stood a few feet away, arms crossed, staring at the fence like it had personally offended her. She wore headphones around her neck but nothing was playing. She wasn’t giving them the satisfaction.

“This is stupid,” she said flatly. “The fence was fine.”

“It was fine in the same way your room is ‘organized,’” Mark said. “Technically functional, morally questionable.”

Nora sighed and picked up a brush. “I’m not laughing.”

“I didn’t say anything funny,” Mark said. “Yet.”

Seven-year-old Theo immediately dunked his brush straight to the handle.

“Whoa, whoa—no drowning the brush!” Lily laughed, rushing over. “Gentle. Like you’re petting the fence.”

“I am petting it,” Theo said, slapping paint onto a board with wild enthusiasm. White droplets speckled his arms. “The fence likes it.”

From the porch, the cat—an orange tabby named Marmalade—watched with narrowed eyes, tail flicking. She stepped delicately into the yard, sniffed the air, and sat exactly in the one spot where the paint tray needed to go.

“Of course,” Mark muttered. “Her spot.”

Marmalade blinked at him slowly.

Nora dipped her brush with care, dragging long, neat strokes down the wood. She didn’t look at anyone.

“So,” Mark said casually, painting the board beside her, “remember when you were little and tried to paint the dog?”

“That never happened.”

“You got halfway down his side before he noticed.”

“He leaned into it,” Nora said. “That’s not my fault.”

“I still have the picture,” Lily added. “He looked very proud.”

Nora’s mouth twitched. Just barely.

Mark caught it.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I’m just saying—this fence is lucky. You’ve improved.”

“I said I’m not laughing,” Nora said, pressing her lips together.

Theo zoomed past them, leaving a trail of painty footprints. “Dad! Mom! The fence is turning white! This is working!”

“That is how paint works,” Mark said.

A breeze kicked up, rustling the trees at the edge of the yard. Somewhere down the street, a lawn mower hummed. A fly buzzed lazily, then escaped when Theo swatted at it and missed.

Mark leaned closer to Nora. “You know,” he said, lowering his voice, “if you keep glaring at the fence like that, it’s going to file a complaint.”

She snorted before she could stop herself.

Mark froze, brush mid-stroke.

Nora’s eyes widened. “I—” She scowled. “That didn’t count.”

“Oh, it counted,” Mark said, grinning. “I heard it. That was a full snort.”

Marmalade chose that moment to walk directly through the paint tray, leaving a perfect line of white paw prints across the grass.

Theo shrieked with laughter.

Lily dropped her roller. “Marmalade!”

The cat paused, looked at her painted feet, then calmly sat down.

Mark leaned back against the fence, laughing now. “Well,” he said, “maybe this will take more than two hours.”

Nora shook her head, trying very hard not to smile, brush still moving in steady strokes as the fence slowly disappeared beneath a clean, bright coat.