“Babe, I’m telling you,” I said over and over, “any one of them is fine. I don’t care. You know I’m not a house snob. I’m in it for the trees. I don’t care what house you put in the middle of that little forest, I’ll be blissful.” “But I want you to care.” “Well, honey,” I said, “I’m sorry. I don’t care. You pick. I’ll be so happy.” And all that was true until the day at our breakfast table when Keith sketched an image on a piece of 8½-by-11-inch printer paper and asked, “What would you think about living in something like that?” “It’s a church!” I exclaimed, taken aback. “Well, yeah, but we’d
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