The place I found was on Cypress Point, small by the standards of the surrounding coastline and therefore absurdly expensive by every rational measure. It had weathered cedar siding, a slate roof, two bedrooms, a kitchen that opened to the sea, and a narrow porch where the railing had silvered from salt. Nothing ostentatious. It looked like what would happen if peace learned carpentry. The first time I stood in the living room and heard the waves through the cracked old windows, I knew. Not because it was perfect. Because it was exactly the kind of house my parents would never have bought for themselves, even if somebody had dropped the means into their lap. Too indulgent. Too unnecessary. Too beautiful for people who had spent their lives mistaking endurance for virtue.
I also knew, almost immediately, that if I bought it, I would need to protect it.
That was not cynicism. That was pattern recognition.