I stepped into the darkened bathroom, the upper half of my right foot landing on the dampened bathroom rug, the other half on the cold—and wet—tile. Hoping I hadn’t stepped in an extra runny puddle of cat barf, or any other kind of feline bodily fluid for that matter, I stopped mid-squish and flipped on the light.

I pulled my foot back to discover a light-brown puddle.

“Why is the bathroom floor wet?” I called to Andrew.

Moments later he was beside me. I had bent down on the dry portion of the rug to smell the mysterious puddle, still hoping it had not come from the cats.

“Oh. Oh no.” He kind of groaned.

Still crouching, I looked up and followed his gaze.

The ceiling was dotted with dingy water droplets.

“The roof,” he says.

Ah, yes. The classic American homeowners crisis: A Leaky Roof. Yay! I was just thinking of ways to spend the abundance of cash I have these days.

I am dejected but not surprised. It’s been raining for the last 24 hours and our house is old.

We both stood silent for a moment, still staring at the ceiling. My chest tightened. I was getting emotional over the house again.

I grabbed an old roll of cheap toilet paper, always happy to use it up in ways other than for what it was intended, and quickly unwound a large lump of tissue. The brown water sopped up easily and reeked of dirty water. I unwound another large bundle, wiped the remaining moisture from the white tiles and threw both of the soggy wads into the toilet and flushed.

“It’ll be okay, baby, okay?” He knew I was frustrated.

“Sure.”

Andrew walked away and I looked up at the ceiling again. Another expense, I thought. We just finished painting and a painstaking ceiling replacement in the living room, which sits right next to the bathroom.

It’s not that the prospect of fixing the bathroom ceiling upsets me, although certainly I’m not ready to skip off to Home Depot again anytime soon. It’s the nagging thought that we fixed the wrong problem.