We were three seasons into living at the gray Cape Cod house in Maine. Despite its name, it was nowhere near Cape Cod and even a few hours from the nearest ocean shore. It would have looked great on Maine’s rocky coast, the gunmetal gray logs, squared off and vertical; the roof steeply sloped black shingle; the doors and trim a pop of color in that not-quite-terracotta that had become trendy in the 2010s. And then there was the chimney rising on the left, mottled shades off red and brown that would curl smoke from the top during the harsh Northern winters. This two story home in the middle of a dozen acres of field and trees was to be the family homestead, the farm from which the children could go off and have their adventures and know that they could return to whenever they needed. Rent would be paid in chores and the terrible fate of keeping the old people company.