“It’s so hot up there,” my husband says as he descends the stairs into our living room.
“I know,” I say, not bothering to look up from my work to meet his eyes. “So hot.”
We love our home, but like all homes, it is imperfect. Built in 1925, we revel in its charm. The wood detail that frames each window. The white built-in bookshelf that has held the books and framed pictures of countless families during its 91 years of life.
Then there are the things we don’t relish. The singular tiny bathroom, for example. Or the fact that central, vented air conditioning simply isn’t an option on our second floor.
“I opened our bedroom window,” Mike says. “I think it’s cooler outside than it is in there. I opened up the window in the guest room, too.”
That makes me look up from my computer to stare back at him.
“The guest room,” I say. “You called it ‘The Guest Room.‘”
The words sting a place deep inside of me, but they sting only because I know they are true.
Read the rest of the essay here, published in the November issue of Literary Mama.