The Canady Farm WC: 297

The Canady Farm
WC 297

My wife is demolishing our kitchen. Not really, but she sure is making noise. I’d better take a look-see.

“This is broken. That’s broken!”

She’s hitting the faucet with a mallet.

Part of the problem is that I bought this farm without letting my wife see it first. It’s in the middle of nowhere, and the house is in disrepair. She hasn’t forgiven me.

We’ve been here for three months.

“This place is cursed! I can’t believe you did this!”

She just stomped off, heading for who-knows-where.

I have a habit of not sharing with her. I know marriage is a partnership, but I have trouble letting go of control. My therapist says I’m probably a narcissist. I rarely look in a mirror, so I stopped going to him.

She’s coming back into the kitchen.

“I can’t live like this. Either we move out, or I move out.”

She just stomped off again.

“Then I guess you’d better pack your bags!” I yell.

I know she won’t leave. Where would she go? I’m her everything.

I don’t think this house is cursed but it is haunted. That’s the reason I got such a good deal. The Canady Farm had been on the market for two years before I scooped it up. Nobody that knew the history would touch it.

My job takes me away for days at a time, leaving her alone. I would not stay here alone. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies.

She is dragging her suitcase down the stairs.

“Goodbye. Good luck. My lawyer will contact yours.”

Oh, no! She just drove away in the good car! I should have hidden the keys.

Well, that’s that!

It’s been fun chatting with you, but I must get packed and find a motel before night sets in.