I am suspicious of the perfect house. For 22 years my ex-husband and I made one perfect house after another only to leave each one and move onto the next. The houses got smaller and smaller until the “perfect” two-room cabin revealed the truth about our failed relationship.
When I see a perfect house, with all the things that I might like to have, I think of our farmhouse so close to the road there is always another car going by. The forever peeling paint on the back of the house and the repairs too many and too small for a handyman seems to want to take on. I think of the rusty cabinets under the kitchen sink, the leaky faucet in the 1956 bathroom that no one can fix and the crumbling plaster in the stairwell.
I think of the things I might do if I had the money and I’m glad I don’t have it.
I don’t want the perfect house. I wouldn’t trust it.