I have seen houses rise from dirt,

watched signatures turn to keys,

watched families carry boxes

through doors they hoped would change their lives.

 

I have also watched numbers fail them.

A payment looked manageable

until life arrived beside it:

the car, the child, the insurance bill,

the hour at work that disappeared.

 

So when government promises a doorway,

I still want to see the frame.

 

Tell me what the house will cost.

Tell me what the family must earn.

Tell me what the debt will demand

after the celebration ends.

 

Do not give me twenty-five billion

as though magnitude were evidence.

Do not give me seventeen percent

as though debt had become a gift.

 

Show me the family who can use it.

Show me the builder who will build because of it.

Show me the older owner who can finally move.

Show me the home that returns to the market.

 

I am willing to listen.

I am willing to be persuaded.

 

But the ballot on my table

is asking for more than hope.

 

It is asking for judgment.

 

And before California marks the answer,

show us the work.