The front door flew open, and Phil Dunphy stood there, arms wide, holding a bottle of sparkling cider like a trophy.
"The eagle has landed!" Phil announced, stepping inside. "The nest is empty! The... other bird metaphors are happening!"
Mitchell looked up from his laptop on the sofa. "Phil, are you saying the house closed?"
"Closed, funded, and recorded," Phil beamed, walking over to place a heavy folder on the coffee table. He turned to Aman, who was looking at him. "Congratulations, homeowner. Or, ex-homeowner. The funds are wired to the trust account as of ninety seconds ago."
Aman put the comic in his hand down.
"Thanks, Phil," Aman said. "Really. I know the selling this fast would have been tricky."
"A little Dunphy charm can hake it happen," Phil winked. "So! You are officially liquid. And Mrs. Pasternak signed the deed for the upstairs unit this morning. She's on her way to Boca. She left her cat tower, though.'."
Cam walked in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "Oh, wonderful! The Pasternak era is over. No more banging on the floor whenever I hit a high note in the shower."
"Now the real work begins," Mitchell sighed, closing his laptop. "We have the keys. We have the unit. Now we just have to make it... livable."
"Livable?" Cam scoffed. "Mitchell, we are going to make it spectacular."
INT. UPSTAIRS UNIT - CONTINUOUS
The door creaked open.
The air inside smelled of stale lavender, mothballs, and forty years of aggressive potpourri.
Mitch, Cam, Phil, and Aman stood in the entryway.
The carpet was a deep, unsettling shade of avocado green shag. The wallpaper featured expansive, dizzying floral patterns that seemed to move if you stared at them too long.
"Wow," Aman said, keeping his voice neutral. "It's... textured."
"It's like a salad exploded in here," Phil observed, kicking the shag carpet with his shoe. "This is definitely original 1974. Groovy."
Cam stepped into the center of the room, spinning slowly. His eyes were wide, but not with horror—with vision.
"I see it," Cam whispered.
"See what?" Mitchell asked nervously. "The mold?"
"The potential," Cam said, framing the room with his hands. "We gut the carpet. Expose the beams. I'm thinking... sultry. I'm thinking Parisian scholar meets Bohemian revolutionary."
Mitchell froze. "Cam. No."
"Hear me out!" Cam rushed on, gesturing wildly. "Deep reds. Velvet drapes. A chaise lounge right there by the window. We call it... L'Appartement d'Aman."
Aman took a step back. "Cam, I really just need a desk and a bed. I don't need a cabaret."
"It's not a cabaret, it's an aesthetic!" Cam insisted. "Think Moulin Rouge but sleeping."
"If Ewan McGregor isn't singing on the roof, I don't want it," Aman said flatly.
"Thank you," Mitchell said, pointing at Aman. "Voice of reason. We are doing neutrals. Greys. Blues. Resale value, Cam."
"Resale value is the enemy of art!" Cam declared.
INT. UPSTAIRS UNIT - DAYS LATER
The space was stripped. The green carpet was gone, revealing subflooring that looked questionable but good.
A hired contractor, a burly man named Hank . Mitchell was holding a clipboard, looking pale. Cam was holding a fabric swatch that looked like leopard print but "tasteful."
Aman sat on a folding chair in the corner, drinking a soda, watching the show.
"Okay," Mitchell said, tapping the clipboard.
"We can cut the sconces," Cam suggested, pouting. "But the lighting plan will suffer. Aman will be studying in the dark. Do you want him to have bad eyesight, Mitchell?"
"I want him to have electricity that doesn't burn the house down," Mitchell snapped.
Aman cleared his throat. He reached into his back pocket.
"Guys," Aman said. "I can write a check. The trust has a provision for 'maintenance and improvement.' I can cover the wiring. And the sconces."
Mitchell whipped around. "Put it away."
"Mitch, it's my room," Aman argued gently. "I have the capital. It doesn't make sense for you to stress over the budget when the money is sitting right there."
"Absolutely not," Cam said, stepping in next to Mitchell. The bickering vanished, replaced by a united parental front. "We provide the shelter. That includes the wires inside the walls."
"It's a principle thing," Mitchell added. "You're the kid. You buy the video games. We buy the drywall. That's the deal."
Aman looked at them. They were stressed, sweating, and currently arguing over a budget that he could fix with a single signature. But they were adamant.
"Okay," Aman said, putting his wallet back. "But if we go with the velvet walls, I'm charging you for emotional damages."
"It's not velvet anymore!" Cam yelled, throwing his hands up. "It's a textured damask! Why does no one understand vision in this family?"
Hank the contractor looked at Aman.
"You want me to just paint it white, kid?" Hank grunted.
"Please, Hank," Aman whispered. "God, please."
INT. UPSTAIRS UNIT - LATER
Phil had arrived, allegedly to "inspect the progress," but mostly to play with the contractor's laser level.
Mitchell was in the corner, staring at a receipt.
"Four hundred dollars for a faucet?" Mitchell muttered. "Does it dispense holy water?"
"It's brushed nickel, Mitchell!" Cam shouted from the bathroom. "It resists fingerprints!"
Phil walked over to Aman, who was still sitting in his chair, watching the chaos.
"You know," Phil said, lowering his voice. "If you want to sneak some LED strips under the cabinets, I know a guy. Me. I'm the guy."
"I might take you up on that," Aman said. "Just don't tell Cam. He'll try to make them strobe to the beat of Lady Gaga."
There was a loud crash from the bathroom.
"I'm okay!" Cam yelled. "The toilet is... heavier than it looks!"
"Don't lift the toilet!" Mitchell screamed, dropping the clipboard and running toward the bathroom. "Hank! Hank, get in there!"
Aman took a sip of his soda.
=====
The late August sun was beating down . The backyard had been transformed into a chaotic explosion of rustic whimsy. There were hand-painted signs pointing to "Mess Hall" (the patio table) and "Lake Tucker" (an inflatable kiddie pool).
Cam stood in the center, wearing khaki shorts, a polo tucked in tight, and a whistle around his neck. He looked like a camp counselor from a 1950s musical.
"Alright, campers!" Cam blew the whistle. *Tweeeeet!* "Activity block one is complete. Now, we move to the arts! Express yourselves! Let the colors of your soul bleed onto the fabric!"
Aman sat at the patio table next to Lily. His hands were stained purple. He was staring at a wet, crumpled t-shirt that he had just pulled out of a bucket.
It wasn't a psychedelic spiral of joy. It was... brown. Just a muddy, aggressive brown.
"I don't understand," Aman muttered, lifting the shirt. "I used red, blue, and yellow. Primary colors. Theoretically, it should be a rainbow."
"You mixed them all together," Lily said, not looking up from her own shirt, which was a perfect pink starburst. "That makes poop color."
"Hey" Aman sighed. "It's digestive art even if i don't intead it be turn out this way."
Lily,"ye ye"
"Next station!" Cam announced, clapping his hands. "Birdhouse architecture! Remember, the birds need a home too!"
Twenty minutes later, Aman was holding a hammer and looking at a pile of wood that defied physics.
He tapped a nail. The entire structure leaned to the left. He tapped it again. The roof slid off slowly, landing on the table with a sad *clack*.
Aman froze. He looked at the collapsed house. Then he looked at Cam, who was watching him with bated breath, terrified that Aman would be frustrated or angry.
Instead, Aman started to laugh.
It wasn't a polite chuckle. It was a genuine, belly-shaking laugh at his own incompetence.
"It's a condemned property," Aman wheezed, pointing at the wood. "Cam, I built a trap. If a bird goes in there, it's never coming out. It's a death house."
Cam's face lit up. He rushed over, putting an arm around Aman's shoulders.
"It's okay! It's abstract! It's a bird *bungalow*!" Cam beamed, squeezing him tight.
*Internal Monologue (Cam):* He's terrible at this. Thank God. He can balance a checkbook, but he needs me to glue wood together. He's still a boy.
"I think I'll stick to buying houses, not building them," Aman wiped a tear of laughter from his eye. "I am officially failing Camp Tucker."
"Nonsense," Cam declared. "You get a participation badge. And a s'more."
---
**INT. JAY'S HOUSE - NIGHT**
The mood shifted as the sun went down.
Today only adults were in the living room. It was "Adult Night"—Jay's mandated quiet time where the wine was expensive and the conversation was "supposed" to be civilized.
Mitchell swirled his Pinot Noir. "So, school starts Tuesday. We got Aman's schedule finalized. He's taking a heavy load."
"We're throwing him into the deep end," Cam added, grabbing a handful of nuts. "He's in AP Calculus. With Alex."
Claire paused, her wine glass halfway to her mouth. She lowered it slowly.
"AP Calc?" Claire asked, her voice tight. "With Alex?"
"Yes," Mitchell said proudly. "The counselor saw his transcripts from his old school and his test. Said he was a shoe-in."
"I mean..." Claire tilted her head, the 'protective mom' shields going up. "No offense, guys, but those classes are *advanced*. Alex has been prepping for that curriculum since seventh grade. Just because Aman is... you know, *mature*... that doesn't always translate to academic rigor. It's a different beast."
"Hey!" Cam bristled. "Are you saying our son isn't smart?"
"I'm saying he's had a traumatic year!" Claire defended. "And maybe putting him in a pressure cooker with Alex isn't the best idea. She eats transfer students for lunch."
"He can handle himself, Claire," Mitchell snapped. "He's brilliant."
"I'm just being realistic!"
"Enough," Jay's voice cut through the air. He set his scotch down on the coaster with a heavy *thud*.
Everyone turned. Jay wasn't looking at them; he was looking at the fire.
"Give the kid a chance to prove himself, Claire," Jay said. "If he fails, he fails. But don't bet against him."
Claire sat back, chastised. "Fine."
Jay turned his gaze to Mitchell and Cam. His expression wasn't grumpy; it was serious. A rare, sober look that he usually reserved for business deals or heartfelt moments he immediately regretted.
"But you two," Jay said, pointing a finger at them. "You need to listen to me. What you have with Lily... that bond? That 'daddy, fix it' dynamic? You are never going to have that with Aman."
Cam opened his mouth to scoff. "Well, Jay, I hardly think—"
"Let me finish," Jay ordered.
The room went silent.
"I'm not saying you won't be good parents to him," Jay continued, his voice softer. "And I'm not saying he won't love you as much as he did his earlier family. But you have to look at the facts. He had parents. He knew them. He remembers them."
Jay leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"That kid... he behaves like a man. Maybe it's his upbringing. Maybe the misfortune forced him to grow up fast. But he makes his own decisions from what i have heard from you. "
Jay looked Mitchell in the eye.
"He won't be your 'child' in the way you want him to be. He's looking for partners, not parents. He wants a base, not a babysitter. It would be wise to hold onto your expectations loosely. Otherwise, you're gonna get your feelings hurt when he doesn't need you to tie his shoes."
The silence in the room was heavy. Mitchell looked down at his wine, realizing the truth in his father's words. He thought about the house sale, the lawyers, the way Aman handled Lily.
"He's right," Mitchell whispered. "He really is self-sufficient."
Cam looked deflated for a moment, his "Camp Tucker" fantasy puncturing slightly. But then, he straightened up.
"Thank you, Jay," Cam said, his voice sincere but stubborn. "Really. It's good advice."
Cam thought about today .
"But," Cam smiled. "It's a leap of faith. We just have to be there for when he *does* need us. Even if it's just to help him glue a birdhouse together."
Jay grunted, picking up his scotch. "Fair enough. Just don't say I didn't warn you."
Gloria smiled, patting Jay's arm. "Look at you, Jay. Giving the wisdom."
"Yeah, yeah," Jay muttered. "Pass the cheese."