The Inspector Was Coming

(A minor tale of collapsing certainty and stubborn outlets)

by a homeowner who once lost a battle with a doorbell

The inspector was coming on Tuesday.

My wife told me this in the same tone one uses to announce that a distant aunt has died and the cat is missing — simultaneously. I nodded, trying to recall where I had last seen the flashlight, the hammer, or my sense of basic competency.

Part One: The Cleaning

We began, as all hopeless projects do, with a plan.We would clean the baseboards. We would check the smoke detectors. We would tighten the wobbly toilet paper holder that had, for some time now, been held in place solely by hope and a gentle touch.

I mopped the floors, slowly and inefficiently, while my wife made a list titled “Things That Will Definitely Be Noticed.” It was three pages long.

She then produced a second list: “Things You Have Promised to Fix Since 2019.”This list was longer, and somehow angrier.

Part Two: The Fixing

I attempted to patch a crack in the hallway wall. This crack had been there since we moved in. It had personality. It meandered like a river. It had become part of the family.

When I tried to fill it with caulk, the wall crumbled slightly, as if offended. I backed away, made a note to "paint over it and act surprised," and moved on to the front door, which creaked in protest when I opened it.

"That’s just the charm of an older home," I said. No one laughed.

Part Three: The Systems

We tested the outlets. Some of them worked.We tested the light switches. One of them activated the garbage disposal, but only on Thursdays.We opened every cabinet, checked the attic for signs of leaks or raccoons, and then stood in the kitchen and simply stared at the dishwasher, daring it to make a noise.

It did not. We decided that was probably a good thing.

Part Four: The Philosophy of Small Cracks

At a certain point, I began to wonder if the home inspection wasn’t a metaphor for something deeper — perhaps a quiet reckoning with one’s own structural flaws.

We are all, in some sense, homes in need of minor repair.

There are parts of me that have been “almost fixed” for years. The sliding door that sticks. The shelf that leans. My inability to find the right Allen wrench when I need it.

Still, we carry on. With duct tape, paint samples, and a level of optimism that borders on delusion.

Part Five: The Inspector Arrives

He came on Tuesday, just as promised.

He wore boots. He carried a clipboard. He looked like a man who had seen things.

He did not laugh when I pointed out that the cracks in the drywall were “aesthetically modern.”He did not comment on the missing vent cover in the laundry room, or the fact that our carbon monoxide detector was held up with a thumbtack and a prayer.

He merely scribbled in his notebook and nodded occasionally.

The Aftermath

When he left, the house was still standing.

The light switches still worked, mostly.

And we were left with a faint sense of having survived something... intimate.

Later that night, my wife and I sat on the couch, surrounded by open toolboxes and paint fumes, and she said, “Well. At least the doorknobs are all the same color now.”

I nodded. I did not tell her that one of them was now glued in place.

Some things, I think, are best discovered after closing.