Hostile and cranky, Suburbia refuses to turn on the sunshine, and instead of offering an olive branch and mending our raveling relationship I turn my back to the window, nestle closer to the thin and boney mattress and ignore him and his obnoxious ways. Blustery wind blows the curtains in the bedroom, but getting out of bed to close the window would put my already cold and nude body at greater risk of chill. So, I turn on my side and stare at the do-it-yourself paint job. With all my mental energy I will the golden brown paint to cover the white spots that have been mistakenly forgotten.

My family has an inkling that Suburbia and I aren’t getting along, but they have no idea how serious our animosity has become, and as a result, I hear them blissfully frolicking downstairs, oblivious to the silent fight in progress in the bedroom. The noise, plus my uncooperative bladder and extreme need for coffee, finally force me to abandon my standoff and get out of bed to accept the day Suburbia presents to me.

The Husband joyfully bids me a hasty goodbye and almost skips out the door on his way to play golf on some nearly two hundred-year old golf course. His thrill at leaving is my pain at staying.

Drinking the last bit of lukewarm coffee, I burrow into the fleece of my jacket and realize, much to my dismay, that not only is it cold, but it’s raining. Spitting, as they say. Pulling on the hood of my Rainy Day Mac means that all day my hearing will be limited, and repeatedly I will utter, “Huh?” Also, my periphery vision will be compromised causing me to step out into oncoming traffic, which will startle me to the core as I realize my life was almost cut short.

The children know something is off. “Why is this town so cold?” Yea, I think to myself, why. Suburbia litters the streets with strolling tourists walking three abreast who won’t break apart to allow passage on the sidewalks. Bored teenagers crowd entrances to businesses as they share one cigarette among the lot of them.

Our destination is a local bird watching and appreciation center that has built a small facility and overstuffed it with exhibits, gift shop and cafe. Toting the bulky coats and backpack I’m bumped and jostled by children and visitors eager to get a better view of the live cameras that spy on birds mating across the water on an island.

My children make rubbings of birds; use binoculars and magnifying glasses to get a closer look at the complex flying creatures and are generally happy to learn everything the center can tell them about the featured animals. Meanwhile I feign interest in the looping ten-minute movie in the schoolroom-sized theater. Over and over I wait for the lights to dim and the babies to cry.

In the dark, annoyed by the garbled voice of the film’s narrator, I think about how I’m walking out on Suburbia and never looking back. We’re finished. This relationship was never meant to be and clearly we can’t get along. He’s cold, rainy, sandy, limited, unimaginative, single-focused, unsophisticated and intellectually uncurious.

Outside in the town the wind swirls my hair into a tornado circling my head and lands the longest strands in the middle of my sticky lip-gloss. Who cares if my face is streaked with a color called Sugar Baby; there is nobody in Suburbia I want to impress.

Midnight arrives and for hours Suburbia has been slowly chilling my feet and they are now frozen. Despite the two layers of bed covers, the coldness of my feet cannot be penetrated, and in fact, my entire body is chilled to the bone, which renders me sleepless. Rolling my two-inch pillow into something that might provide the slightest bit of neck support, I wait for morning when we will pack and leave Suburbia forever.

In Scotland daylight has begun to arrive later than it did at the beginning of our summer adventures, and around five in the morning, the sunlight creeps through the separation in the drapes. Any sign of light is good enough for me – I’m up. The faster I pack, the faster we leave Suburbia and escape into the strong arms of Beloved City, even if its only for a brief period.

Who knows why things happen, but for some unknown reason Suburbia greets me with a morning that features an enormous blue sky and a full sun bath while I water the geraniums on the back terrace. The garden explodes with daisies, Lucifers and a zillion other flowers whose names I don’t know. Like a victim of domestic abuse, miraculously I begin to forget last night and yesterday when Suburbia acted like an ass.

Walking into town, the children and I revel in the good weather before we slip into the Buttercup Café to enjoy a perfect breakfast of local fare. The Husband is cleaning the abode and my job is to keep the children out of the house until he’s through and our luggage waits on the curb.

As we troll the beachside stores suddenly they are filled with interesting merchandise. Just yesterday the stores were packed with tacky seaside bric-a-brac extolling quippy sayings like, “Free Hot Baths, soap and towels 25 cents” or “Fun in the Sun, This Way (arrow)”.

Oh, Suburbia! He’s trying to make friends and end our relationship on a good note. Passing my remaining British pounds I purchase the most adorable English made pajamas for the Irish girls. The littlest Irish girl is quite a character and the Pepto Bismal pink grandpa pjs with the white polka dots and ruffled bottoms could not be any better match for her. The older Irish girl is artsy and romantic, and for her the store has a lovely sleeping gown of pink floral with maroon velvet piping.

As if perfect gifts for the Irish girls isn’t a big enough find, we stumble upon a set of mint green and gold juice glasses from the 1940’s for the Irish parents. Not only are the presents perfect, the gift-wrap is positively edible. Lush deep pink paper with green scroll and gingham ribbon – it’s an English wonderland.

The Husband sits on the front steps with our packed luggage, his gift of cleaning has been granted to the little house. The Husband, loaded for bear, seems to have given the house a cleaning like its never had before, and honestly, it might be a little much. Hopefully, the family will not return and be shocked at how the splash marks from their messy cooking have been scrubbed clear from the wall and the furniture has been dismantled and vacuumed, not to mention the chest of drawers whose drawers now actually operate.

Sitting on a bench surrounded by our two cases and four backpacks, we wait for the train while my typically unaffectionate daughter sits on my lap and rubs the mink button I scored at the antiques store and am wearing pinned to my sundress. Love must be courted. It’s not always obvious that a mink button or a sunny day is the answer.