I can still picture the day I finally said goodbye to that hideous old couch, as if it happened just yesterday.
It was a gentle autumn morning, the sort where the sky hangs heavy with clouds yet doesn’t seem ready to spill any rain, and the cool air brushes against your cheeks.
My husband, Bryce, had headed off to work at the break of day, leaving me by myself in the house, with only our dog wandering around the kitchen in search of any leftover treats. The living room was filled with a soft gray light that spilled over the worn cushions of that huge piece of furniture.
I had been pestering Bryce to get rid of that couch for months—maybe even nearly a year. Whenever I mentioned it, he would just nod off in a daze and respond with something like, “Yeah, we’ll take care of it soon,” or “No worries, I’ll get a junk service
on it,” but he never actually did anything. I just couldn’t understand why he was hesitating; it felt so out of character for him. He was typically practical and didn’t hold on to old things. This felt unique.
The couch was absolutely awful. Once, it had a soft pale blue hue, perhaps decades in the past, but now it had transformed into a murky shade that hovered somewhere between gray and green. The fabric had thinned out in places, the cushions had lost their firmness,
and the wooden frame let out a creaky sound that felt a bit unsettling. Sitting in the wrong spot could lead to an uncomfortable surprise, like a
broken spring jabbing into your thigh. To make matters worse, over the past month, I started to worry that mold was growing under the
cushions—there was this musty smell that I just couldn’t pinpoint to anything else. I had steam cleaned it, sprayed it with deodorizer, you name it. Still, that strange smell hung in the air.
