So file this under adulting.

 

I know in a lot of posts I’ve said that my intent before he was found was to dissolve our marriage. While I do miss some of our time together, what I miss even more is having another adult in the room.

 

Why do I say that?

 

The House With “Character”

 

Let’s rewind a little over sixteen years ago. Mr. Peabody and I hopped into the Wayback Machine and decided that buying a place was a good idea. We liked older homes with character—something like the one we had rented in Butte, Montana. After touring more than a few “unique fixer-upper opportunities,” we found one.

 

Built in 1894, she wasn’t a young lady, but the house had charm: a gorgeous stone fireplace, a massive stone kitchen island, and a backyard patio perfect for summer gatherings. The previous owner, a stone mason, left his mark everywhere.

 

Where he shouldn’t have left his mark was the hardwood flooring. He nailed planks straight down into the subfloor at 90 degrees. At first, it looked artsy. Over time? It turned into a landmine of popping nails, buckled boards, and summer humidity disasters. Socks torn. Feet cut. A beautiful nightmare.

 

Floors, Fixes, and Fiascos

 

We talked about refinishing, but every professional said the same thing: it would be easier to rip it all out. He dragged his heels. I didn’t push. And so we lived with it—until we didn’t.

 

After he died, I began tackling repairs one by one. A good handyman redid the guest room floor and sealed off the old swamp cooler duct. For the first time in years, that room became habitable. Central air went in. Life moved forward.

 

Eventually, I caved and hired a company to redo the living room floor. Huge mistake. Within weeks it cracked, split, and warped. The installer patched it with “creative methods” that even the next flooring guy described politely as “interesting—I would never do that.” Fast forward to today, and the professionals I’ve hired discovered that one corner of the living room had no framing support at all. Cue another delay while I wait for a framer to shore it up.

 

“You can pay me now, or you can pay me later,” the old ad slogan said. Turns out, you can do both.

 

The Weight of Being “It”

 

Here’s where adulting kicks in. Decisions are mine now. I have support from family and a few close friends, but at the end of the day, I am the sole decision-maker. After 27 years of being part of a team, that shift is brutal.

 

It’s not just about choosing paint colors or picking flooring. It’s about the psychological whiplash of being the only one who decides what stays, what goes, what gets fixed, and what gets put off. Sometimes I want to pick up my phone and say, “Hey, did you see what they did with ___?” But there’s nobody on the other end of that anymore.

 

Over time, I’ve gotten better. The muscle memory of second-guessing is fading. I’ve learned to weigh affordability, prioritize needs, and then pull the trigger. There’s no more waiting for someone else to come around, no more wondering if the money’s actually there.

 

Final Word

 

Adulting is hard enough when you have a partner. When you don’t, it’s a crash course in resilience, patience, and the art of making peace with your choices.

 

I know my dogs and my mom are always on my side when I make good ones. And honestly, that’s enough.