How I Lost a Room Without a Fight
My name is Dana. I’m 39. I live in Colorado with my husband and our two daughters.
Last November, I went out to the garage to paint. I pulled the cover off my supply box and found droppings on my paintbrushes.
I cleaned them. Kept painting. Told myself it was a one-time thing.
A week later, I noticed chew marks on a canvas stretcher bar. Something had been gnawing on the wood frame.
Then I opened a box of watercolors I hadn’t touched in a few weeks.
There was a nest inside.
Not droppings. Not marks. An actual nest. Shredded paper and cotton stuffed between the paint tubes.
I closed the box. Closed the garage door. And I haven’t opened it since.
That was November. It’s now March.
“Don’t You Have a Garage?”
Four months. My art supplies are in there. My holiday decorations are in there. Our toolbox, our camping gear, my daughter’s bike pump.
When I need something from the garage, I ask my husband to get it.
When my daughter needs poster board for a school project, I drive to the store. Even though I know there’s a pack on the shelf six feet from the door.
I’m paying a mortgage on a four-room house and using three rooms.
One afternoon I was on the phone with my sister. Complaining about not having space to paint. Not having time. The usual excuses.
She said: “Don’t you have a garage?”
Silence.
Three seconds of it.
Then I told her the truth. I haven’t been in my garage in four months because of mice.
Saying it out loud made it real. I gave up a room in my own house. Without a fight.