If I'd known Dad's "house-hunting mission" would involve three too-hot taxis and a lot of him muttering at a crumpled map, I'd have stolen an extra mango muffin from breakfast.
The hotel's dining area smelled like coconut and warm rice when we stumbled in. Mia was already at the table, shoveling mango porridge into her mouth like it might disappear.
"You'll freeze your brain before we even leave breakfast," Mom said, sliding a cup of tea toward her.
Mia paused, spoon halfway to her mouth. "But what if the first house has a mango tree? I need energy to climb it."
Dad laughed, dropping a stack of papers on the table. His guidebook was dog-eared, and there was a smudge of ink on his thumb—he'd been scribbling notes all morning.
"Plan's simple," he said, tapping the papers. "Three houses today. All near the market, like we wanted. First one's a ten-minute taxi ride away."
I groaned, poking at my fried egg. "Can't we just pick the first one and call it a day? I wanna go to the night market later."
Mia kicked my shin under the table. "No way! We need a yard. For a dog. And my mango tree."
Dad raised an eyebrow. "One thing at a time. Let's see if the houses even have walls first."
We finished breakfast fast—Mia still managed to steal half my muffin—and hauled our backpacks to the street. The morning sun was already warm, and the air smelled like jasmine and freshly cut grass.
A taxi pulled up, its windows fogged from the AC. The driver nodded when Dad showed him the address, and we piled in—Mia by the window, me squished between her and Mom.
Chiang Mai's morning streets were busy but calm—vendors setting up stalls, kids walking to school in crisp uniforms, dogs napping in the shade. Mia pressed her face to the glass, pointing at every mango tree we passed.
"Look! That one's loaded! Imagine picking mangoes for breakfast!"
I rolled my eyes. "You'd probably fall out of the tree. Mom'd kill us both."
She stuck her tongue out, but she was smiling. Mom laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"Remember when you tried to climb the cherry tree by our old apartment? You got stuck and cried till Dad got the ladder?"
Mia's face turned red. "That was seven! And Jax pushed me!"
"I did not!"
Dad cleared his throat, glancing at us in the rearview mirror. "Save the bickering. We're here."
The first house was tiny—pale yellow, with a porch barely big enough for a chair. The front gate creaked when we pushed it open, and the yard was just a patch of dirt with a single wilted flower.
The landlord was an older man with a straw hat. He led us inside, and the first thing I noticed was how small the living room was—our Tokyo couch wouldn't even fit.
Mia's face fell. "Where's the yard? And the mango tree?"
Dad coughed, flipping through his notes. "Says here it has a 'small outdoor space.' I guess 'small' is relative."
Mom nudged him. "Next time, read the fine print."
We lasted five minutes there. Mia kept muttering about "no dog, no mangoes," and I kept hitting my elbow on the tiny table by the door.
"Nope," Dad said, shaking the landlord's hand. "Thanks, though."
The second house was bigger, but it smelled like old fish. Mia plugged her nose the second we walked in, and even Dad winced.
"The kitchen's next to the fish market," the landlord explained, like that was a good thing.
Mom backed toward the door. "We'll… think about it."
We practically ran to the taxi. Mia scrubbed her nose with her sleeve. "I think my nose is gonna smell like fish forever."
Dad sighed, pulling out his map again. "Third one's better. I checked the reviews. Says it has a 'spacious yard' and 'great views.'"
Mia perked up. "Yard? Does it say mango tree?"
Dad hesitated. "Uh… 'fruit trees.' Could be mango."
Her grin was back. "Let's go!"
The third house was on a quiet street, with a wooden gate painted blue. The yard was big—green grass, a few palm trees, and sure enough, a mango tree heavy with fruit.
Mia gasped, darting past the landlord to the tree. "It's perfect! Look at the mangoes!"
I had to admit, it was nice. The house was two stories, with a porch that wrapped around the front, and the windows let in tons of sunlight. But when we went inside, the floors creaked so loud I thought they'd break, and one of the bedroom doors wouldn't close all the way.
Dad frowned, tapping his notebook. "Structural issues. Mom's herb pots wouldn't last a day on that sill."
Mia's shoulders drooped. "But the mango tree…"
"I know, kiddo," Dad said, ruffling her hair. "But we need something that doesn't feel like it's gonna fall apart."
We left, and Mia kicked a pebble down the street. "This sucks. When are we gonna find a good one?"
Mom squeezed her hand. "Patience. The right one's out there. We just gotta keep looking."
Dad checked his phone, then brightened. "Hey—there's a fourth house. I forgot to add it. It's a ten-minute ride away. Says it's got a big yard and's close to the temple."
Mia perked up a little. "Temple? Like the one in Jax's history book?"
I nodded, pulling the book out of my backpack. Wat Phra That Doi Suthep's golden spire stared up at me from the page.
"Maybe," Dad said. "Let's go check it out."
The taxi dropped us off at the end of a quiet street. The house was painted soft green, with a white fence and a gate covered in flower vines. When we pushed it open, my breath caught.
The yard was huge—lush grass, a few palm trees, and a small patio with a wooden table. And by the fence? A mango tree, its branches heavy with ripe fruit.
But the best part was the view. From the porch, you could see the top of a golden temple spire, glinting in the sun.
Mia ran to the mango tree, jumping to touch a fruit. "It's even better than the last one!"
The landlord—a woman with a wide smile—led us inside. The floors were solid, the rooms bright, and there were two bedrooms upstairs, both big enough for our stuff.
Dad walked around, nodding. He checked the windows (no wobbly sills), the kitchen (big enough for his rice cooker), and the backyard (fenced, perfect for a dog).
Mom stood on the porch, staring at the temple spire. "This feels like home," she said softly.
I walked over to her. The spire glinted in the sun, just like in my book. For a second, I could almost hear the bells from the temple, faint and far.
"It does," I said.
Mia darted in, holding up a mango she'd picked (the landlord laughed and said it was fine). "Can we get this one? Please please please?"
Dad looked at Mom, then at us. He smiled. "Yeah. I think we found our house."
Mia screamed, jumping up and down. She ran outside, climbing the mango tree (carefully, this time) and yelling that she was gonna name the dog Mango.
I laughed, shaking my head. But when I looked around—the bright rooms, the big yard, the temple spire in the distance—I felt it too. That light, ready feeling I'd had on the plane.
This was it. Our new home.
Dad shook the landlord's hand, grinning. "We'll take it."
We left the house an hour later, keys in Dad's pocket. Mia was still talking about the mango tree and the dog and how she was gonna decorate her room with silk scarves.
We walked to a nearby street stall for lunch—pad thai, just like I'd wanted—and sat at a plastic table under a tree. The food was spicy and sweet, and the vendor gave us free mango slices for dessert.
Mia ate hers in two bites, then leaned back, staring at the sky. "Can you believe it? We have a house. In Chiang Mai."
I shook my head, biting into a mango slice. The sweetness hit me slow, like the first time I'd tasted sticky rice—warm, familiar, like I'd been waiting for it.
"Nope," I said. "But it's good. Real good."
Dad sipped his iced tea, smiling. "Move-in day's in three days. We can go shopping for furniture tomorrow."
Mia's eyes lit up. "Can we get a hammock? For the porch?"
Mom laughed. "We'll see."
After lunch, we took a taxi back to the hotel. Mia fell asleep on my shoulder, her head heavy, and I stared out the window.
Chiang Mai slipped by—the mango trees, the temple spires, the street stalls glowing in the sun. This wasn't Tokyo. It wasn't the old apartment, or Mrs. Tanaka's cookies, or the cherry tree Mia had fallen out of.
But it was ours.
I pulled out my phone, snapping a photo of the temple spire we could see from the taxi. I sent it to Mrs. Tanaka, with a text: Found our house. It has a mango tree. And we can see the temple from the porch.
I put my phone away, then looked down at Mia. She was smiling in her sleep, like she was dreaming of mangoes and dogs and new rooms.
Dad glanced at us in the rearview mirror, and Mom squeezed my hand. For a second, everything felt quiet and perfect—like we'd been here forever.
But as the temple spire flashed in the sun, something stirred inside me.
I didn't know what it meant. Not yet.
But I knew one thing: our new life in Chiang Mai wasn't just about mangoes and dogs and a big yard.
It was about whatever was waiting under that golden spire. Whatever was gonna make this life feel even more like a dream—even more impossible.
And for the first time, I didn't just feel ready. I felt excited.
Excited to climb that mango tree. Excited to find that dog. Excited to see what the temple had in store.
Excited for whatever came next.