Chapter 2 - The Appointment I Wasn't Supposed to Know About
Two mornings later, I found a stranger measuring my living room.
He was standing beside the fireplace with a laser tape measure pointed toward the front window when I came home early from work.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he smiled.
“Mrs. Sullivan?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I’m Todd.”
That explained absolutely nothing.
Todd glanced at his tablet.
“I’m just finishing the main level. Your husband said the upstairs bedrooms are pretty standard.”
“My husband said what?”
The smile disappeared.
“Oh.”
There are certain sounds that become very loud when you are angry.
The refrigerator.
The furnace.
The click of a stranger turning off a laser measuring device inside your own home.
“What are you doing here, Todd?”
He swallowed.
“Pre-listing measurements.”
I stared at him.
“Pre-listing for what?”
Todd looked genuinely miserable.
“Your house.”
Michael came through the garage door twelve minutes later carrying a bag from Home Depot.
He saw me.
He saw Todd.
Then he stopped.
That told me everything.
“Todd,” Michael said, “could you give us a minute?”
Todd practically fled.
I waited until the front door closed.
“Pre-listing measurements?”
Michael set the bag on the kitchen island.
“It’s not what you think.”
“Excellent. Tell me what I think.”
“Maggie—”
“No. I would genuinely love to know.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“I called a realtor.”
“You called a realtor.”
“To get information.”
“And information apparently requires measuring our bedrooms.”
“He offered to run numbers.”
“Before or after you sent our daughter condominiums in Tennessee?”
His face tightened.
“Those are separate things.”
“They seem remarkably cooperative for separate things.”
He walked toward the coffee maker.
That irritated me more.
We were discussing the possible sale of the home where I had raised three children, and Michael apparently needed caffeine to survive my inconvenience.
“I’m trying to be practical,” he said.
“So am I. Practically speaking, were you planning to sell my house before or after you retired me?”
“Our house.”
“Good correction. Perhaps you should remember it.”
He turned around.
“We have too much house.”
“I agree.”
“Then what are we fighting about?”
“The part where agreement about a general idea became permission for you to make specific decisions.”
“I haven’t made any decisions.”
“Todd had a laser.”
“That isn’t a closing document.”
“No. It’s just a stranger measuring the home I apparently still live in.”
Michael slammed his coffee mug down harder than necessary.
“Why does everything suddenly have to become a referendum on whether I respect you?”
The question stopped me.
“Suddenly?”
He exhaled.
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I think you did.”
We stared at each other.
Thirty-six years of marriage gives you an extraordinary ability to recognize when your spouse is afraid.
Michael was afraid.
Not of me.
Of something else.
I lowered my voice.
“Why are you in such a hurry?”
“I’m not.”
“You retired six months ago. Ben moved out three days ago. Anna is pregnant. And suddenly you want my job gone, our house listed, and our lives moved four hours south.”
“I thought you’d be excited.”
“That isn't an answer.”
He looked toward the window.
For the first time, the anger left his face.
“I hate this house empty.”
There it was.
Quiet.
Almost embarrassed.
I folded my arms.
“So do I sometimes.”
“You leave for work. I’m here.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
His voice cracked just enough that I heard it.
“I wake up at six-thirty because I woke up at six-thirty for thirty-eight years. Then I realize there’s nowhere I have to be. I make coffee. I walk through rooms nobody uses. Sometimes I don’t talk to anyone until you get home.”
I had not known that.
Partly because Michael had not told me.
Partly because I had not asked.
He continued.
“When Anna said she was pregnant, I thought... there. That’s something.”
Something.
Not necessarily a grandchild.
A purpose.
I understood him suddenly.
Understanding him did not make what he had done acceptable.
“You’re lonely.”
“I’m retired.”
“Those aren’t the same thing.”
“They feel pretty similar right now.”
I sat across from him.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“What was I supposed to say? I spent my entire adult life wanting retirement, and now I’m miserable?”
“Yes.”
He laughed once without humor.
“That sounds pathetic.”
“It sounds human.”
He looked at me.
And for one dangerous second, I almost did what I had always done.
I almost softened the entire problem until it disappeared.
Almost said we could visit Tennessee more.
Almost said I could retire a little earlier.
Almost started rearranging myself to make Michael comfortable.
Then I remembered Todd’s laser crossing my living room.
“No,” I said.
Michael frowned.
“No what?”
“No to Tennessee.”
His expression changed.
“You haven't even looked.”
“I don’t need to look at condominiums to know I’m not moving right now.”
“What about Anna?”
“Anna is an adult.”
“She’s having our first grandchild.”
“And I will love that baby without reorganizing my entire existence around her.”
“You make it sound selfish to help family.”
“I have helped family for thirty-five years.”
“So now you’re keeping score?”
“No. I’m finally noticing the score exists.”
That landed.
Hard.
I stood.
“I’m not retiring early.”
“Maggie—”
“I’m not moving to Tennessee.”
“We should discuss—”
“And nobody enters this house to prepare it for sale unless both owners agree.”
He stared at me.
“You’re acting like I betrayed you.”
“No.”
I picked up my purse.
“I’m acting like I finally noticed you stopped asking.”
That night, Michael slept in our bedroom.
I slept in Ben’s empty room on an air mattress we kept for guests.
At 1:13 a.m., I opened my laptop.
I typed three words into Google.
Landscape architecture programs.
I stared at the results for nearly ten minutes.
Then I laughed at myself.
I was sixty.
What was I going to do?
Start graduate school?
Become the oldest intern in Ohio?
Spend retirement grading soil and arguing about stormwater drainage?
I almost closed the computer.
Then I saw something.
Cincinnati State Continuing Education.
Community Design Certificate.
Eight months.
Evening classes.
No GRE.
One course caught my attention.
Designing Public Green Spaces.
I clicked.
Applications closed Friday.
Friday was tomorrow.
My heart began beating faster.
This was ridiculous.
Impulsive.
Probably useless.
I opened the application anyway.
Name.
Margaret Sullivan.
Age wasn't requested.
Neither was permission.
I completed everything until I reached the final button.
SUBMIT APPLICATION.
My finger hovered over the trackpad.
For thirty-five years, I had been excellent at postponing myself.
Maybe after Luke starts school.
Maybe after Anna graduates.
Maybe after Ben leaves.
Maybe after retirement.
Maybe someday.
Someday had become a graveyard for things I had once wanted.
I clicked Submit.
The confirmation appeared immediately.
Application received.
I sat alone in my son’s empty bedroom staring at those two words.
May you like
And for the first time since Ben had driven away, the emptiness of the house didn't frighten me.
It felt like space.
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