What would be better, that people build big houses thinking that

Host:
The rain had ended, but the sky still hung low — gray, swollen, the kind of cloud cover that feels like a mirror for human restlessness. The city stretched out beneath it, glass and steel shimmering with residue, a soft reflection of its own contradictions.

In the corner of a half-empty café, Jack sat by the window, a folded newspaper beside his untouched cup of coffee. The headlines screamed markets, prices, housing bubbles. Jeeny sat across from him, her notebook open, a pen resting in her fingers but unmoving. Between them, written on a napkin, were the words that had sparked their silence:

“What would be better, that people build big houses thinking that they'll make capital gains or that they send their children to medical school and they do research on curing diseases? When you put it that way, it seems obvious. There has developed a sense of personal worth that's tied to one's house.” – Robert J. Shiller

Jeeny:
(looking up from the napkin)
It’s almost absurd how true that is. We’ve built a culture where square footage means success — where people equate the walls around them with their worth.

Jack:
(leans back, staring out the window)
Yeah. The bigger the house, the smaller the soul.

Host:
Outside, the rain began again — soft, delicate, more like a whisper than weather. Cars passed, their reflections smearing across the wet glass like moving ghosts.

Jeeny:
You sound bitter.

Jack:
(smirking faintly)
Maybe I am. You ever notice how people talk about “investing in property” as if it’s an act of faith? Like they’re buying immortality in mortgage payments?

Jeeny:
(thoughtfully)
Because they’re afraid to be forgotten. A house stands where memory can’t. It’s a kind of physical legacy.

Jack:
Legacy’s a fragile thing when it’s measured in walls. You can’t build meaning out of drywall and granite countertops.

Host:
The light through the window dimmed slightly as a bus passed, its shadow moving over them like a tide. Jeeny’s eyes lingered on the condensation running down the glass, tiny rivers erasing themselves as quickly as they formed.

Jeeny:
Still, I understand it. People need something solid to believe in. A home feels like control in a world that keeps shifting beneath your feet.

Jack:
Control’s the greatest illusion we ever sold ourselves.

Jeeny:
(smiles)
You say that as if illusions aren’t necessary.

Jack:
They are. But they shouldn’t cost this much interest.

Host:
A faint laugh slipped from her lips — short, sincere, fading quickly. The waitress passed, refilling cups without interrupting the rhythm of the moment. The aroma of coffee thickened the air, grounding them in something simple, something real.

Jeeny:
You know what struck me about Shiller’s words? It’s not just about economics. It’s moral. He’s comparing two ways of defining progress — by accumulation or by contribution.

Jack:
(nods slowly)
Yeah. One builds walls. The other builds cures.

Jeeny:
And the irony is, we admire both equally — the philanthropist and the property flipper.

Jack:
We confuse price with value.

Jeeny:
(quietly)
Or permanence with purpose.

Host:
A sudden crack of thunder rolled in the distance. The sound seemed to echo through their words, amplifying what neither wanted to admit — that the modern world had perfected the art of hollow success.

Jack:
You think people really tie their self-worth to their homes?

Jeeny:
Of course. The address becomes identity. The facade becomes reflection. You can tell someone’s story now just by the color of their kitchen cabinets.

Jack:
(half-smiling)
So, a person’s soul is now open-plan.

Jeeny:
(grins)
With recessed lighting and a three-car garage.

Host:
Their laughter softened the air, breaking the tension that had hovered over the table. But as it faded, what remained was introspection — the quiet ache that follows truth.

Jeeny:
What Shiller’s saying, though, is that we’re starving the world of meaning. Imagine what could happen if people invested their ambition in others instead of themselves.

Jack:
(voice lower now)
Yeah. Instead of raising property values, they’d raise humanity’s worth.

Jeeny:
And maybe then progress wouldn’t feel so lonely.

Host:
Outside, a man with an umbrella crossed the street, his reflection multiplying in every window. The world moved on, unaware of its own absurd beauty.

Jack:
You think it’s possible to change that mindset? To make people care more about purpose than profit?

Jeeny:
(thinking)
Not entirely. But it starts with one choice at a time. What you build, what you fund, what you value.

Jack:
(sighs)
You make it sound so simple.

Jeeny:
It is simple. It’s just not easy.

Host:
The rain grew heavier, the sound rhythmic, like applause for their honesty. Jack watched a drop trace its way down the glass until it disappeared into the sill.

Jack:
You know, when I was younger, I thought success meant never worrying about bills again. Now I think it means never having to question whether you did something that mattered.

Jeeny:
That’s the real definition of home, isn’t it? Not the place you live in, but the peace you create by what you give.

Jack:
(softly, almost to himself)
And you can’t buy that square footage.

Host:
The waitress placed their check on the table, unnoticed. Jeeny’s notebook sat open, the ink from her pen bleeding slightly from the moisture in the air.

Jeeny:
Do you think people like Shiller are idealists? Or just disappointed realists?

Jack:
(half-smiles)
Maybe both. You have to be disappointed to see clearly.

Jeeny:
And idealistic to keep hoping anyway.

Host:
She reached for the napkin, folded it neatly, and tucked it into her notebook like a secret. Jack looked out the window again, at the city skyline gleaming under the last of the rain — towers of ambition rising over streets of struggle.

Jeeny:
When you think about it, houses crumble. Markets crash. But ideas — compassion, discovery, the work of the human mind — that’s what outlives us.

Jack:
(nods, voice soft)
Then maybe it’s time we stop building for profit and start building for permanence.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
Not houses. Foundations.

Host:
The rain stopped. A sliver of sunlight broke through the clouds, spilling gold across the wet glass, cutting their reflections in half — two faces, two philosophies, united in quiet understanding.

They sat there a while longer, not speaking, just watching the light return.

And in that silence, between the echoes of thunder and the slow heartbeat of a city reawakening,
it felt — just for a moment — as if they’d found a truth worth keeping.

That worth isn’t built in what we own,
but in what we give back.

That the truest investment
is not in the walls that hold us,
but in the world that outlasts us.