(as told over wine to her friend Marlene)

I love my husband. I do. He’s a good man with a deep laugh and this… hobby. This collecting thing. It started small—one coffee can of mixed screws and bolts. “For emergencies,” he said. “You never know when you’ll need a half-rusted lag bolt.” Sure. I went with it. Everyone needs a quirk.

But now?

Now we have four coffee cans. Four. The large Costco size. And he beams with pride because, and I quote, “My dad only ever made it to three.” Like this is a generational relay race and he’s just broken a world record in the hoarding Olympics.

Our garage? There are sections. Labeled, even, in masking tape and Sharpie:

“Wood: Long”

“Wood: Too Short to Be Useful but You Never Know”

“Tools in Time Out”

“Metal for Future Welding Projects” (he doesn’t own a welder)

Behind the garage we have what I’ve come to call The Yard of Broken Dreams—a graveyard of lawn mower parts, rusted pipe, a disassembled swing set from a neighbor’s curb, and what I swear used to be a motorcycle or possibly just hope on two wheels.

I once asked why we kept seven broken weed whackers. He looked at me, dead serious, and said, “Between all of them, I’ve got a working one. In theory.”

In theory, Marlene.

The final straw came last week. I opened the pantry and found a brake rotor next to the cereal. I asked why. He said, “I didn’t want it getting dirty in the garage.” The man who stores car parts in our dry goods aisle is worried about cleanliness.

So here’s where I’m at.

Option A: Intervention.

I call the kids. I get them to help. We lure him into the living room with an offer of a new shop vac, sit him down, and read letters about how his pile of “perfectly good” broken tape measures is affecting the family.

Option B: Arson.

Late night. One flick of a match. “Honey, I don’t know how it happened. Must’ve been spontaneous combustion. You know how volatile decades-old polyurethane can be.”

I’m leaning toward intervention. But if you see smoke on Saturday, bring marshmallows.