Every couple has that thing their first year of marriage—the thing that is really hard but makes them so much closer than they would have been beforehand. Tight finances, a move, a new city, a new job.
My sister and brother can thank their thing to french fries at midnight gone horribly wrong.
At 2:00 a.m. on a snowy, cold night at the beginning of December, Andrew and I woke up to a pounding on our window that was Amy and Kevin. Since neither of us sleep near our phones, we missed the seven texts, the nine missed calls (moral of the story: NEVER call us in an emergency because we WILL LET YOU DOWN). Their neighbors got a craving for french fries at midnight, and grease fires spread fast so before they knew it the smoke stung their eyes and they had to leave.
We let in our smokey siblings through the back door, stayed up late drinking cups of tea, and asked them WHY they chose to exit a burning building with only a fossil purse, Ugg boots, and the firesafe box—the ONE thing that should actually be safe in a fire. (It should be noted here that neither of them chose to bring their bibles which could reflect a huge priority chasm.) We echoed each other’s sentiments, that it could have been worse, so much worse, and if it’s just smoke we’re dealing with, it’s not so bad.
We found out the next day the damage was worse than we thought. Smoke makes everything hazy and sticky and it had put a nice filmy cover on all their newlywed, married things—their dish set, their duvet, their couch and photo albums. One night with us turned into two, and then three, then a week, then a month, and then it was the end of January before Amy and Kevin finally moved back home. Our first long term “lodgers.”