He loved the third house, but he never
liked the state of Washington. George spent every single minute of his spare time remodeling
the house and I worked as his slave. The old and unique house was transformed
into a beautiful home. We lived there for seven years. As soon as we finished
remodeling, it was time to move. Every day he asked me, “Do you feel like this
is your home?” Sure, I felt like it was home…the home that we invested so much
money and effort, instead of going out and having fun.
A “home,” for me, was where George and
the two dogs were. As long as we had a roof over our heads, and we were warm, I
considered it home. That was never enough for him.
Today, after we came back from staying
overnight at the business, he asked me again, “Do you feel like this is your
home? Isn’t it good to be back?” Um…m, I am not sure this time. This house is
far from being completed. There are still many boxes that can’t be stored
because we cannot afford a garage. There is not enough closet space. We have
rotted logs and leaks here and there. Usually, the older you get, the more
comfortable you become, especially where you live. We are far away from feeling
comfortable.
George, of course, said, “I feel this is
my home.” After all of these years, he finally feels at home in the most
uncomfortable, inconvenient, broken down house, we have lived in. I guess I
have been trained well enough to switch to survival mode all of the time. My
answer was…I just smiled. What else can I say?
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