“And now you've given me, given me; Nothing but shattered dreams, shattered dreams”

We walk through the lanes of Home Depot, still unable to comprehend the shit show that has engulfed our life. Following the officer’s suggestion, we hope for the tiny bit of salvation that makes this nightmare less frightening.

We reach the door/window aisle and expect to find glass of various sizes, ready to be cut. Instead, we discover rows of cardboard boxes with pictures displaying numerous styles of doors. We walk down the surrounding corridors as if searching for the missing puzzle piece.

Finally, accepting defeat, we turn to the contractor’s desk. I tell a young female employee with long sparkly nails the drama that unfolded the night before. She stares at me with boredom and informs me her supervisor will help us as soon as he finishes with his customer.

We stand behind said client listening to their small talk. The transaction has finished, yet neither seem to want to move from their spots. Eventually, the older gray-haired gentleman offers his assistance. Again, we say our sob story. Despite reiterating the words "burglary," "smashed sliding door," and "officer said Home Depot will fix the door" my voice sounds foreign to me. I can't believe the truth I'm speaking. I can't believe this is my reality. I'm not supposed to be here. I should be at my mom's house helping with a literary project.

The employee shakes his head disapprovingly. “No, we don’t do that. It’s a do-it-yourself kind of job.”

I snap back to the present.

He must’ve seen something in my expression as his next words were “It’s easy. Measure the glass, order it, pick it up, bring it home, pop out the old glass, pop in the new glass, seal it in, and you’re done.”

Dumbfounded, I answer with the first word that comes to mind, “Fuck.”

The previous customer shoots a glance my way that says, “we don’t say words like that here.”

The Home Depot employee repeats himself. “Like I said, we don’t do it for you. It’s a DIY.”

I step away from them and return to the aisle with the doors. My pace slows as I take out my cellphone and press the familiar button. “Hi, Mom. In Bob’s experience with owning apartments, has he done much with replacing glass in doors or windows?”

“Uhm, no,” she hesitantly replies.

“Hmmm, OK.”

She knows where this conversation is heading. “Brandy, I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to …”

I don’t let her finish. I reply with a bit more oompf and frustration than intended. “I KNOW THAT.”

I’ve accidentally decapitated not one but two ceramic Virgin Mary statues. I drop things on the regular, breaking dishware in the process. My lack of hand and eye coordination makes me a target in tchotchke shops, earning the nickname “bull in a china shop.” I don’t trust myself with breakables, why would anyone in their right mind give me a plate of glass?

She calms me down with reminding me I am a capable adult in a tough situation and will find the solution. As we hang up, I realize none of this drama will be easier and I need time to process. I stand in the lane for another moment or two taking in and exhaling deep breaths wondering how this happened.

This is day two.