I almost drove past my own house. After two weeks away in Boston, I turned onto my street expecting the warm yellow Craftsman bungalow I had lived in for eleven years. Instead, I saw a medium-gray house in its place. The paint job was professional, clean, and completely wrong.
My neighbor Pete crossed the street with his phone already out. He showed me photos of painters arriving, setting up scaffolding, and covering my yellow siding with gray paint. He also showed me a work order signed by my next-door neighbor, Tyler.
The yellow had been my mother’s idea when I first bought the house. We had chosen it together years ago, and I had always maintained it in that same color. It wasn’t just paint to me—it was part of the home’s identity.
