“It doesn’t matter that it’s small,” my husband Neil said of the altered third bedroom of our then-new apartment. At the time he was right. Our daughter, Meg, who would be sleeping in it, was only two-years-old, didn’t need much furniture, and had yet to accumulate many worldly possessions.
Two years later, however, Meg had not only experienced a dramatic increase in belongings, but also in awareness that her living quarters were not as palatial as her older brother’s. His room was twice the size as hers. This was the final straw in Meg’s growing list of “Why does Luke have (fill in the blank) and I don’t?” The three-year age difference was always my reason, but it was not one that she considered reasonable.
Actually, the real reason Luke’s bedroom was so much bigger than his sister’s was because Neil had seen no need to renovate. He didn’t want to deal with general contractors, not to mention the money and the mess. Also, he is one of seven and growing up saw inequality as the norm.
I am an only child and saw my daughter’s point about having a larger and more beautiful room. But the lack of equality that Meg felt was creating a wall between us. I wanted to knock down this barrier sooner rather than later, but realized that first I had to tear down one of a different kind.
The former shareholder had divided the bedroom space into a half office-half breakfast nook. She cut the room in two by building a wall of sheetrock, complete with pocket doors which, when closed, concealed her home office, leaving the
windowless nook exposed. To make this area more accessible, she removed the entranceway’s French doors, as well as the crown molding. If there is a hell for people who have bad design judgment, they’re saving a place for our coop’s former occupant.
When I decided it was time for change, I literally had to take matters into my own hands. I started on a Sunday afternoon when Meg and Luke were spending the day with my mother-in-law. Neil was not feeling well and had taken a cold remedy that caused drowsiness. As he was drifting off, and therefore powerless to stop me, I mentioned I’d be taking down the wall in Meg’s bedroom. He yawned and mumbled, “That’s nice,” as he dozed off in the living room’s recliner.
Manned with a hammer and screwdriver, I unhooked the doors then pried off the molding before going to work on one side of the partition. Just as I finished cleaning up the debris of my labor, Neil woke up and the kids got home. They all looked on in horror at the sight of Operation Meg’s Room in full swing. Neil walked off questioning my sanity. Luke inquired innocently if we were keeping things in their current state of dishevelment. Meg looked as though she wanted to cry. Before, her room was merely small. Now, it was also a wreck. I assured everyone I had it all under control.
For the next week when my son was at school, I enlisted my mother to keep Meg occupied so I could finish the demolition. (For the record, a licensed GC and sledgehammer would have gotten the job done in an afternoon.) Prying, banging, chipping away, not just at the barrier that divided the room, but at whatever doubts Meg had that she was not as worthy as Luke of grand surroundings. At the end of each day she’d come in and give her digs the once over, still unsure of the outcome. “Trust me,” I’d say. She’d shrug and say, “OK.” What choice, after all, did she have?
“See, your room is now the same size as Luke’s,” I said, sweeping my arms over the space like a game show prize model one day. Her eyes and mouth were open wider than I’d ever seen. I painted the room Meg’s favorite colors. Together we went to Bed, Bath & Beyond to pick out Disney princess bedding and wall decals.
When Operation Meg’s Room was complete, she told me she loved it, and me for making it happen. Meg finally had the proof she needed that she was equal to her brother, who stopped by to survey my handiwork and offered, “Yeah, it looks better without the wall.”
It felt better, too.
Lorraine Duffy Merkl is the author of the novel Fat Chick and a columnist in New York City.
