When I came home from work that Tuesday afternoon, I expected to find the usual quiet house waiting for me.
Instead, I found a four-foot section of our living room wall missing.
The couch had been dragged several feet away from the wall. White drywall dust covered the rug, and pieces of insulation had been placed in a strangely neat pile beside the fireplace.
My husband, Brian, stood in front of the enormous opening holding a utility knife.
I dropped my purse onto the floor.
“What happened?”
Brian turned around slowly.
“It looks worse than it is.”
There are certain sentences in a marriage that immediately make you suspicious.
That was one of them.
I stepped farther into the room.
Behind Brian, I could see exposed wooden studs, electrical wiring, and a section of drywall cut away in a rectangle so clean it looked 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.”
I stared at him.
“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 of the drywall cracked.”
I looked down at the rectangular pieces of drywall stacked neatly beside him.
“Cracked?”
“Yes.”
“In perfectly straight lines?”
Brian sighed.
“I got carried away.”
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I looked around the room.
His drill was on the floor.
So was a pry bar, tape measure, level, stud finder, pencil, and a small handsaw.
There was even a folded drop cloth tucked underneath the coffee table.
This did not look like a man who had accidentally broken some drywall while tightening an electrical outlet.
This looked like a man who had prepared for surgery.
I pointed at the level.
“Why is that out?”
Brian glanced down.
“I wanted to make sure everything was straight.”
“What?”
“The cut.”
I stared at him.
“The accidental cut?”
