Mitch had always guarded the garage more fiercely than any other room in the house, and once even shouted at their son for getting too close. Sarah thought he was protecting expensive tools. Then she opened the door and saw dozens of dresses made for little girls.
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My husband told me the garage was off limits on our second day in this house.
For nine years, neither our boys nor I went inside.
Cole asked about it when he was eight.
He had followed Mitch downstairs because he wanted a screwdriver for some school project.
Mitch turned around so fast I thought Cole had touched a live wire.
“Get back upstairs.”
Cole froze.
“I just need…”
“I said get back upstairs!”
It was the only real shouting I’d ever heard from Mitch.
Cole came back up with tears in his eyes.
Later, Mitch apologized to him.
He said there were dangerous tools and chemicals down there and that he had overreacted.
I believed him.
Mitch is 43 now. I’m 41.
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We’ve been together 11 years and married for 10.
He works maintenance at a manufacturing plant.
He comes home around 5:30 p.m., eats dinner with us, asks the boys about school, helps with homework, and then disappears downstairs.
“I’m working on my projects,” he always says.
“I love fixing things.”
Sometimes I hear a drill.
Sometimes a machine humming.