It Was Supposed to Be a Kitchen Problem
My name is Jenna. I live just outside Raleigh, North Carolina, with my husband and our two kids, ages 6 and 9.
A few weeks earlier, we'd found some chewed cereal boxes. A couple of droppings near the pantry. Normal "old house" stuff, or so I told myself.
We set some traps in the kitchen. Caught a mouse. Figured that was that.
Then one Saturday, I reached for the throw blanket on our living room sofa to wrap around my daughter during movie night.
Droppings fell out onto the cushion.
I froze. My daughter was standing right there.
I grabbed the blanket, told her I'd "wash it real quick," and calmly walked to the laundry room — where I promptly lost it a little, quietly, so she wouldn't see.
That sofa is where we do everything. Movie nights. Homework help. My husband and I unwind there after the kids go to bed. It's the most "us" room in the whole house.
And now, every time I looked at it, all I could picture was something moving under the cushions.
I stopped sitting on it the normal way. I'd perch on the edge. I stopped letting the kids leave snacks nearby. I was avoiding my own living room, in my own house.
That's when I finally asked a pest control tech, who'd come out for a neighbor down the street, a question that had been bothering me for days: "Why would it even be in the sofa? Isn't that supposed to be a kitchen problem?"
What he told me was the missing piece.