September: When Our Dream Home Became “The House With Mice”
My name is Ashley. I’m 33. My husband Kevin and I saved for three years to buy this house. It’s everything we wanted.
The first three months were perfect. Unpacking boxes. Painting the kids’ rooms. Building bookshelves. Making it ours.
Then September came.
I found droppings in the pantry. Behind the cereal boxes. Small, dark, unmistakable.
I cleaned them up. Told myself it was just one mouse. Old house. Happens once.
A week later, droppings behind the stove. Then in the master bedroom closet. Then in the kids’ bathroom.
By October, I was finding evidence in a new room every week.
Every time I opened a box to unpack, part of my brain was scanning the corners for droppings instead of deciding where to hang curtains.
I wasn’t settling into my home. I was inspecting it.
Kevin said: “Every house has mice.”
I said: “This isn’t what I signed up for.”
$600 on an Exterminator. Mice Still in the Kitchen.
I called an exterminator. He came twice in two months. $300 per visit.
He set bait stations. He put down traps. He told me to seal gaps with steel wool.
I did everything he said.
Two weeks after his second visit, I found fresh droppings under the kitchen sink.
$600 spent. Mice still there.
I tried everything else, too. Peppermint oil on cotton balls. Evaporated overnight. Ultrasonic plug-ins. Did nothing. Steel wool in every hole I could find. They found new ones.
Nothing lasted more than a week. And every morning I woke up in a house I’d saved three years to buy, walked into the kitchen, and checked the counters before I could make coffee.
This wasn’t a home. It was a project.