The Things the Walls Know

A story told by a house

I’ve known Lucille (she goes by Lucy), for years.

Not personally, of course.

I’m her house.

I’ve watched her come and go through my front door thousands of times. I know the sound of her footsteps. The rushed ones and the tired ones. The heavier ones after a long, difficult day. I know which floorboard she skips over because it creaks. I know she reaches for the light switch before she’s even in the doorway. I know she talks to her dog differently than she talks to people. I know the smell of her favourite perfume before she steps foot in a room. I know she plays instrumentals while she’s cooking. I know she loves her roses, her flowers and her plants…she speaks to them every morning.

I know she pulls dead leaves off with the same gentleness and tenderness when brushing hair away from her daughter’s face. And I know she kneels in her garden and presses her hands into the soil when she needs grounding.

I know things about her nobody else does.

Humans are funny. They think houses don’t notice anything. That they’re just made up of steel, drywall, wood, concrete and insulation. We are so much more than that.

And we notice everything.

We watch.

We remember.

I’ve seen Lucy grow from a young woman into a wife, a mother, and eventually the person carrying more of this house than anyone realizes.

I was there.

I was there when trust was broken. I was there for the arguments that followed.

The silences that followed those.

The years that followed those.

People always think the hardest part is the moment something breaks, but it isn’t.

The hardest part is what happens afterward.

I’ve watched Lucy sit on the closed toilet seat with her face buried in her lap, while she quietly cries because someone might hear. I’ve heard prayers spoken into her folded, small, soft hands.

The kind people whisper when they’re running out of answers.

I’ve watched her stand in the laundry room with one hand on a basket of clothes and the other pressed against her chest, trying to gather enough strength to walk back into the next room and pretend she was okay.

Nobody talks about moments like that. They’re too ordinary and there are no witnesses.

Except…I am.

I was there.

I’ve heard every, single conversation. The ones people had with her. The ones people had about her, and the ones she had with herself when nobody else was around. I’ve felt the warmth of her forehead pressed against me on days when hope felt very far away. I’ve seen her lean against my walls as though she was borrowing their strength.

I’ve heard accusations, misunderstandings, and apologies.

Things said in anger triggered by fear.

Things people wish they could take back.

The truth is, everyone in this house has been wounded by someone.

Lucy included.

And everyone in this house has wounded someone else.

Lucy included.

Nobody is completely innocent, and nobody is completely guilty.

Lucy isn’t a victim and she’s never pretended to be.

I’ve seen her lose her temper, and heard her say things she regretted. I’ve seen pain move through her the same way it moved through everyone else.

That’s what pain does when people carry it for too long.

But I’ve watched something else too.

I’ve watched her reflect, apologize and I’ve even watched her question herself.

Sometimes too much.

I’ve seen versions of her that didn’t match the woman I know. I’ve watched her take responsibility for things that she owns…and sometimes for things that she didn’t. Pacing the hallways trying to make sense of something that didn’t make sense. She’s blamed herself for things that didn’t belong to her.

I was there when she practiced conversations before having them because she was afraid of being misunderstood. Nobody knows about that.

I was there when she was called things she wasn’t. And I was there when she started wondering…if maybe she was those things after all.

But the people around her have their own stories, too. I’ve seen their wounds, insecurities, and disappointments. I’ve seen the private version, of every person.

I’ve watched a hurting man sit alone long after everyone else had gone to bed. Feeling confused, unappreciated and sad. Replaying conversations, questioning himself and feeling that no matter how hard he tries, it never quite measures up.

I’ve seen the disappointment settle into him like dust. The kind men rarely talk about. I’ve watched him want appreciation and not know how to ask for it. He wants understanding yet doesn’t know how to express it. He wants connection, but somehow created distance instead. He loves his family and would do anything for them.

I’ve watched anger cover sadness, ego and pride cover shame.

Humans are masters of disguise, especially when it comes to pain.

That’s why I don’t take sides.

I can’t because I’ve seen too much.

What I know is that hurt travels through families the way smoke travels through rooms.

Quietly. Finding every corner. Touching everyone.

Sometimes people don’t even realize they’re breathing it in.

I’ve watched Lucy in all her glory and in all her faults. This perfect imperfect human.

Thank goodness for that! Because perfect people don’t exist.

She’s stubborn when she should bend. Hard when she could be soft. Patient until she’s suddenly not. Certain one day and full of doubt the next.

She’s made her mistakes, she’s been right and been wrong, and been both at the same time.

Human, in other words.

I’ve also seen things she cannot see. The way her children look at her when the energy in a room changes.

Children are magical by the way, they always notice...

A change in tone, a sharp comment, or a tight lip. Maybe even the silence that lasts a little too long.

Their eyes instinctively find her.

She thinks they’re looking at her, but in reality the way I see it, they’re looking for her.

Looking for reassurance, safety and perhaps for a signal that everything is going to be okay.

She doesn’t realize the responsibility she carries.

And I don’t mean the responsibility of paying some bills or making dinners.

But the responsibility of being the emotional anchor.

The energy shifts when she shifts.

The room softens when she softens, and I exhale when she exhales.

You see, Lucy thinks she comes home to rest. What she doesn’t realize is that I rest because she comes home.

I need her too.

She opens the windows to let fresh air in, she wipes down the countertops, she washes floors, she paints the walls. She waters the plants, she cleans and scrubs…

She repairs what is broken.

Others live in me, but she cares about me. She treats me differently. Almost like she understands something that others may not.

Some people treat home like it’s a place that exists…they kick off their shoes and create a mess, things drop and stay wherever it lands, doors and cabinets remain half open, stains and marks are left wherever…

But a home isn’t just where you live.

It’s where your soul comes to recover from the world. And I’ve watched her recover a million times.

At the end of the day, I don’t have the answers. Humans are complex.

And I’m just a house.

But I’ve seen enough to know that Lucy is not who people think she is when they’re angry. None of us are.

The version of a person that exists during conflict is rarely the whole story.

And if I could tell her one thing, it wouldn’t be that she’s strong. She hates hearing that by the way…people tell her that all the time. Women get told that all the time. Usually when they’re asking them to carry more.

I’d tell her something simpler. I’d tell her:

I saw it.

The whole thing.

Not the story people tell later on or the version people remember.

The version that actually happened.

The nights she thought she couldn’t do it anymore…and the mornings she got up anyway.

So I’ve come to a conclusion.

People are far more resilient than us houses. They break and need restoration like we do.

But what amazes me is that they keep loving anyway…they keep tending to what really matters.

And from where I stand, that’s the most beautiful thing about them.

✨

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If your home could tell your story, what would it say about you?

And would it be kinder than the stories you’ve been telling yourself?