The first time, she pointed out the obvious. No proper storage. Not enough baby-proofing. The space heater in the corner. The garage filled with tools and oil and parts.
“Not suitable,” she said, writing it down without hesitation.
I fixed what I could.
The second time, it was new things. Laundry left out. A bottle of cleaner within reach. A few dishes in the sink.
“Accessible hazards.”
The third time, I cleaned so hard I barely slept. Still, she found dust on a shelf. A cabinet without a lock. A crack in the floor.
“Potential risk.”
Each time, she wrote the same word.
FAILED.
By the fourth inspection, I had spent money I didn’t have on safety gear and repairs. Outlet covers, cabinet locks, smoke detectors, baby gates—you name it. The house looked better than it had in twenty years.
