The Painted Lady’s Guardian

 

Look up to the Sky

She stands in shades of blue and rose, a Victorian grande dame who has weathered more than a century of storms. When I first crossed her threshold, three small children in tow and precious little time to spare, something whispered “home.” After twelve years of running my tech business, I could finally afford her — with my father’s co-signature on the loan, a gesture of faith I never once betrayed.

What the home inspector couldn’t see, time would gradually reveal. Like reading the chapters of a gothic novel, each year unveiled new challenges, testing not just my resolve but my very capacity to protect this sanctuary I’d created for my children. It began with a whisper — a small leak in the roof, a drip from an upstairs bathtub. Then came the day my daughter discovered our stove held together by electrical tape, a band-aid solution from some previous owner’s desperation.

The washing machine saga became legendary in our family lore: trapped in a bathroom clearly built around it, the appliance refused to exit through either window or door frame. Its replacement found refuge on the back porch, demanding new outlets, drains, and vents — a cascade of modifications that turned a simple appliance replacement into an engineering project.

Refrigerator Graveyard

Our kitchen briefly became a refrigerator graveyard, housing three dying units that worked in shifts, each failing in its own time until we finally welcomed a new one. But it was the roof — oh, the roof — that became my greatest adversary and teacher. For fifteen years, it leaked. Contractors would come, take one look at its steep, sprawling expanse, and drive away, muttering excuses. Those who stayed often quoted prices that seemed designed to make me give up.

A view from the inside during roof repairs

Instead, I became a nocturnal guardian, a one-woman bucket brigade during storms. There were nights I never slept, hauling water from the attic and second floor, dumping containers over the balcony only to watch them fill again. Between managing a household, going to school, raising children, and maintaining a career, I learned the art of channeling water, of protecting what was mine. Concrobium became my ally in the war against mold, its non-toxic shield protecting both the house’s bones and my family’s health.

When well-meaning friends suggested walking away, they didn’t understand. This wasn’t just a house with a mortgage — it was a promise I’d made, not only to the bank but to myself and my children. The financial reality was clear: abandoning ship would leave me paying for a ghost while trying to shelter my family elsewhere. But more than that, these walls held memories. My father, now gone, lives in every corner where he helped, in every problem he helped me solve. His spirit is as much a part of this house as the ornate trim and high ceilings.

Now, with my children grown and gone, these rooms echo differently. The space feels larger, yet somehow more intimate. My painted lady shows her age, like me, but I see past the wear to what she could be again. I dream of finding someone who shares my vision, who understands that these historic homes aren’t just buildings — they’re repositories of lives lived, of struggles overcome, of families grown.

She was born in the 1890s, this painted lady of mine, and through all her trials and transformations, she has remained standing. Perhaps that’s why I can’t bring myself to leave — we’ve grown old together, my house and I, weathering storms both literal and metaphorical. In her worn floors and weathered paint, I see my own resilience reflected back at me. And in my dreams of her restoration, I see the promise of renewal, the possibility that with enough love and the right helping hands, both of us might shine again.

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