My husband destroyed part of our living room while I was at work, and expected me to believe a loose outlet was responsible. By dinner, our 12-year-old looked so nervous that I stopped worrying about the wall and started wondering what they were both keeping from me.
I came home on Tuesday afternoon and found a four-foot section of our living room wall missing.
The couch had been dragged three feet forward, and white drywall dust covered the rug.
Pieces of insulation sat in a neat pile beside the fireplace.
My husband, Brian, was standing in front of the opening holding a utility knife.
I dropped my purse on the floor. “What happened?”
Brian turned around slowly. “It looks worse than it is.”
There are certain sentences in marriage that never lead anywhere good.
That was one of them.
I stepped farther into the room.
Behind him, I could see exposed studs, wiring, and a section of drywall cut away in a rectangle so clean it looked almost measured.
“Brian, what happened to the wall?”
“One of the outlets was loose.”
“The outlet was loose?”
“Yeah.”
“So you removed half the wall?”
“Not half.”
“This is big.”
“Okay, about four feet.”
I looked at the outlet hanging near the bottom of the opening.
“You needed to remove four feet of drywall to check an outlet?”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“When I took the plate off, some drywall cracked.”
I looked at the clean stack of rectangular drywall pieces beside him.
“Cracked.”
“Yes.”
“In perfectly straight lines.”
He sighed. “I got carried away.”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I looked around.
His drill was on the floor.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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