There was a loose piece of awning above our garage—open just enough to catch my eye. I closed it and made a mental note to screw it shut later. Then I went back to my morning coffee at the patio table.

A little while later, I noticed a finch perched nearby, clinging to a wire, pausing by the spot I had just shut. She looked curious… maybe a little frantic. She flew away, then returned, circling, inspecting from another angle. It happened a few more times before it clicked: what if that was her home?

I felt guilt. I reopened the panel, hoping she hadn’t already accepted the loss. I couldn’t see inside, so I reached my phone up and into the opening. As I did, we startled each other—a bird burst out in a flurry of wings, and I dropped my arm instinctively.

Later, I watched the video. Inside the gutter sat a small nest, quiet and hidden, holding an egg—pale blue, speckled with brown.

I felt worse. I’d already scared her twice. I left the panel open and promised myself I wouldn’t interfere again.

Weeks passed. I found myself wondering if the egg had hatched. I hoped the little bird had made it safely.

Then one afternoon, I found two tiny birds lifeless on the patio. Most likely the work of our dog. My stomach dropped. If those were her babies… if they fell from that nest…

They built their home inside mine. I closed it. Reopened it. Vowed to leave it alone. And even then—despite the effort, despite the care—our lives intersected in a way that ended in loss.

It’s a tension I keep returning to. Wanting to share space with nature, to do no harm, while still living my life—planting, painting, raising a toddler, letting the dogs out to play.

But there’s still hope.

Just now, I checked again. I heard peeping—new life, still here.
I set up a little gate around the fall zone, padded it with something soft, just in case.

It doesn’t undo anything.
But it’s what I can do now.