At 7:12 on a Saturday morning in Pasadena, the old kitchen finally gave way. A cabinet door leaned against the garage wall, a cracked countertop rested beside a stack of broken tiles, and dust hung in the bright air like a thin veil. Inside the house, Maya stood over a cardboard box marked KEEP and wondered how a long-planned renovation had turned the driveway into a maze.
Then a truck turned onto the quiet street, its engine rumbling between jacaranda trees. The driver climbed down, looked over the pile, and smiled.
