“Between you, me, and the wall, I don’t know what to do!”

I pointed to myself, then to my husband, then to the wall in question as though it could talk—as though it were knowledgeable. As though I’d given it a consciousness along with an ivory surface covered in a patchwork quilt of memories: photos, certificates, achievements in gold frames. As though the wall were a wise counselor that could enter into the conversation.

If the wall could talk, it would help me with my decision, because between my husband, myself, and the wall, I was the only clueless one. See, my husband liked to believe he was all-knowing. And as for the wall, it had seen generations of pets, children, parents—and newlyweds like ourselves—spray its surface with mud, smatter it with posters, and shake it with the volume of foolish discussions like ours. The wall had gained more wisdom with each new owner, becoming the sage it is now. Yet it could not advise me. Between my husband, myself, and the wall, it did not possess a mouth to speak. And oh, the things it could share! Stories of deception and ugly truths. Stories of birth and mortality. Stories of the mundaneness of human life, yet how powerful laughter and love can be.

All I wanted to know was which shirt to wear for work, and with its vast supply of knowledge, the wall couldn’t even answer that simple question. Neither could my husband, who let out an exasperated sigh like this was a trivial matter and no concern of his, promptly exiting the room.

Still bursting with indecision, I turned to the mute wall and huffed, “Wall, you’ve failed me.”