In the house where I grew up, we had two living rooms: a formal one that we weren’t allowed to sit in, and the other that housed the television and, often, our overflowing toys and books. When my French husband visited my family home for the first time, the dual living room situation confused him: The house isn’t particularly large, and my parents don’t regularly host guests, so the formal living room sat empty most of the time. After some convincing, my parents gave us free rein to rearrange the furniture—we left them with twice as much usable space, and a chance to enjoy the expensive, comfortable, practically unused furniture that they’ve owned for 25 years.
My parents’ hesitance to use nice things isn’t limited to furniture, unfortunately. My dad was once gifted a great pair of loafers that he rarely wore—and now that he needs to wear supportive sneakers, he has little reason to. On that same visit, I unearthed a bottle of good whiskey that has probably been sitting in the pantry for a decade (unopened), and spied all the beauty products I’ve ever sent my mom for her birthdays—still in their packaging. (“I’m saving them,” was her response.)
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