I never wanted to live in an exclusive neighborhood, but my husband insisted that we move into one since "we can afford it now." In exchange for my willingness, he promised to make the kitchen of my dreams. To be honest, my dream kitchen is just spacious enough where I'm not bumping into any counters when I turn around. But if I wanted anything more than generous space, it was cabinets inlaid with iridescent shell.
My husband kept his word. Not only did he order the cabinets with the shell, he also got a matching cupboard for my gourmet baking supplies. The shell wasn't the real deal, but it looked real enough. All I cared about was the shine that shell would give off.
Gosh, did it ever. It made sitting at the breakfast nook so much nicer. The tiny rainbow reflections were the perfect backdrop for my cooking adventures—especially when I was successful with a challenging dish!
But you know what you get when you live in an exclusive neighborhood? A golf course. You know what that brings? Golf balls.
Golfers are always playing year round, but the activity really ramps up in the spring and summer. Every week, I'd find a new ball somewhere in the yard. Some were dangerously close to the house.
I started a collection. Any time I found one of those buggers, I dropped them into a metal bucket. I didn't know what I'd end up doing with them, but there was a silly part of me that thought of them as a sort of prize. Maybe I'd learn how to juggle. I could put on a show, mocking the golfers as they rambled past in their carts.
It all came to a head when, one morning, I was enjoying my coffee and listening to birdsong when the window shattered. A damn golf call had crashed through it! Fortunately, I was at the island and not the breakfast nook, but there was glass on the floor.
And a dent in my prized cupboard.
That tore it. I was getting my revenge—and I'd put those golf balls to good use.