A New Life in Modern Family

I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.

https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon

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Chapter 110: Measure Once and Build It Twice

Jon's Perspective

After a long, brutal day of football practice under a sun that apparently had a personal vendetta against every living thing on the field, I was ready to collapse. My dreams were simple—something cold to drink, a long, scalding shower to steam the soreness out of my muscles, and then a glorious horizontal stretch across my bed, where I could mentally unplug from reality.

But as always, life—or more accurately, Phil Dunphy—had other plans.

I was halfway through a crisp apple, just starting to relax, when my phone rang.

"Jon! Emergency!" Phil's voice crackled through the line, high-pitched and immediate, like a man who had just discovered he was standing on a live wire.

I sat up with a groan, the kind that came from both exhaustion and experience. "Did you fall out of the treehouse again?" I asked dryly.

"No," he said, sounding slightly offended. "Claire inspected it."

There was a long pause on my end as I took another bite. "…And?"

"She said it's a structural disaster," Phil replied, mimicking Claire's stern tone, "and that Luke will 'fall while playing up there.' Her exact words."

I sighed. "To be fair," I said between bites, "we kind of eyeballed the support beams. And we did use more zip ties than nails."

There was a dramatic sigh on the other end. "She's insisting we redo the whole thing. Reinforcements, better anchoring, some talk about load-bearing ratios—basically, the fun police just revoked our creative license."

I chuckled quietly. "Do you want real help this time?"

Phil brightened immediately. "You're offering more of you? Always."

"Yes," I said, finishing the apple. Then, with a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, I added after hanging up, "But I'm not coming alone. I'm bringing in reinforcements of my own. Professional ones."

Dunphy Backyard – 5:45 PM

When I pulled into the Dunphys' driveway, I wasn't alone. Right behind me rolled in a navy-blue pickup truck that looked like it had actually seen work—like it belonged to someone who could read a blueprint without Googling it first.

Emblazoned on the side was a modest but confident logo: Very Good Construction Co. Underneath it, a simple hammer. No slogans. No flashy graphics. Just… functional. Kind of like the man who stepped out of the driver's side a moment later.

Ron—Sam's dad—was the kind of guy you could tell knew how to fix things just by the way he stood. His button-down was faded, sleeves rolled, and his jeans had that earned grime only years of honest work could embed. His handshake probably came with a warranty.

Phil emerged from the backyard, clearly expecting me solo. His confident smile faltered slightly when he saw Ron.

"Jon," he said cautiously, narrowing his eyes at the blueprints tucked under Ron's arm. "Why is there a man with a moustache and actual construction tools on my lawn?"

"This is Ron," I said. "He's Sam's dad. Owns a construction company."

Phil blinked. "Like… a real one?"

"Yes," I said, deadpan.

"And he's here to… what? Audit us?"

Ron, ever direct, nodded once at Phil. "Technically, I'm here to make sure your son doesn't plummet through a poorly-secured platform into a shrub."

Phil blinked again. "I like him already."

6:00 PM – Treehouse Inspection Begins

Ron approached the treehouse like a detective arriving at a crime scene. He didn't say much at first. Just circled. Observed. His expression was unreadable, though his eyebrows lifted once—never a good sign.

He poked a support beam. It shuddered. He grunted.

Phil leaned over and whispered, "That's the sound my dentist made before breaking the news about my crown."

Ron crouched down and pulled out a tape measure. He checked beam angles, wood integrity, the slope of the ladder, and—most damning of all—the back corner that was literally held up by duct tape and wishful thinking.

After a long pause, he stood up, brushed his hands on his jeans, and gave his verdict. "We'll need stronger wood, actual bolts, proper leveling, and something more reliable than tape."

Phil laughed a little too quickly. "That tape was… temporary. Artistic. Kind of a visual metaphor for the fluidity of youth."

Ron gave him the kind of look that peeled paint off walls. Then silently started scribbling a materials list in his battered notebook.

7:15 PM – Building Begins (Properly, This Time)

To his credit, Phil jumped into the process with enthusiasm. He was Ron's shadow—handing over tools like a kid playing mechanic, tossing out suggestions that bordered on whimsical.

"What about a secret snack drawer inside the tree trunk?"

Ron: "No."

"Glow-in-the-dark rope ladder?"

Ron: silent stare

"Disco ball?"

Ron: "No."

Phil took the rejection surprisingly well. He nodded and just kept helping. Every now and then, he'd sneak glances at Ron's movements, clearly trying to copy the confident way he measured and marked things.

When Ron peeled off his flannel, revealing a simple white undershirt, Phil whispered to me, "Is this what Sam's future looks like? A future of flannel and know-how?"

I smirked. "Maybe. Hopefully without the moustache."

Phil laughed, a little too loudly, trying to match Ron's energy. I could sense it—Phil wanted Ron's respect. Desperately. He even started throwing around words like "joist spacing" and "load balance" with reckless abandon.

At one point, he said, "Should we bevel the gussets?"

Ron didn't even look up. "That's not a real sentence, Phil."

8:30 PM – Almost There

The sun had set a while ago, and the air was starting to cool. And there it stood—the transformed treehouse. No longer a wobbling plywood fantasy, it had become an actual structure. It had integrity. Stability. Claire-level safety.

Phil stood with his hands on his hips like a proud architect. "Ron, I gotta say… you've taken our dream and made it... safe. And dreamy."

Ron just nodded, wiping his hands on a rag. "Needs paint. Matte. Gloss holds heat. Bakes the treehouse."

Phil immediately typed that into his phone like it was gospel.

9:00 PM – Done

As Ron packed up his tools with the quiet efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times, he looked at me and nodded.

"You did good. Most people wouldn't ask for help."

I shrugged. "Phil's my guy. Couldn't let him get Claire'd into a full structural shutdown."

Ron cracked a smile. "She's a force."

"She once stared down a recycling bin until it wheeled itself away in defeat."

Phil jogged over and shook Ron's hand with firm, exaggerated gratitude. "Thank you again. Seriously. If you ever want to build, bond, or—" he paused dramatically, "—bevel something, you know where to find me."

Ron replied without missing a beat, "Just don't put snacks in the walls."

As Ron drove off into the night, his truck humming steadily, Phil turned to me with a thoughtful expression.

"You think he liked me?"

I considered it. "I think he didn't dislike you."

Phil smiled, satisfied. "That's practically friendship. Let's call it… structural progress."

We stood there, side by side, admiring the treehouse. Sturdy. Balanced. Claire-approved. Built not just to last—but built right.