Too Big For Me
My grandfather once said something that puzzled me as a child but has grown clearer with age: “This house is too big for me.” At the time, it seemed like an odd complaint. Who wouldn’t want more space? But now, decades later, I understand what he meant.
The issue isn’t just the upkeep or the quiet echo of memories in every room. Those things play a part, of course. But more than that, I think the house feels too big because it doesn’t reflect how I live.
I’m a minimalist by nature. Everything I own has been deliberately chosen. Buying something — or adopting a dog — is never a whim. My car seats two. My computers are small and purpose-built. If you listed my preferred foods and drinks on a menu, it would fit on a business card. My wardrobe? Ten shirts, ten socks, ten neckties, ten of everything. Simplicity makes sense to me.
This house was designed for four people. It has large, open spaces meant for laughter and gatherings. Some rooms I visit only to dust or open the windows. My son’s room is cleaned monthly, though he hasn’t been home in over three years. I sleep upstairs, but only because I have to. Ayumi stays downstairs, and my office is next to the kitchen. If the upstairs vanished overnight, I’d still have more than enough room.
The truth is, I don’t need this much space. A small one-bedroom house would suit Ayumi and me just fine. Even an apartment would work, but the idea of renting forever doesn’t appeal. If money allowed, I’d consider tearing this house down and building a modest, single-story home right here. The neighbourhood is lovely, and Ayumi enjoys the nearby parks — and the other dogs, too.
But reality is what it is. Selling would leave me deep in the red. Land here is worth less than the loan still outstanding, and few people buy used homes. So for now, Ayumi and I stay — two quiet souls in a house built for four — and dream of something smaller.