I am writing to you with actual pen and paper because I keep waiting for you to return my calls and texts and I can't figure out why you won't respond.
What went wrong with our relationship, Scott? Did I ask for too many changes? Was I too picky, or did you just get bored?
I heard horror stories of construction projects going unfinished and contractors disappearing, but Scott, I never dreamt it could happen to us.
I look back fondly on our first meeting. I remember I got your number from my friend Natalie. My husband and I needed a kitchen remodel and she said we would "just love you."
And we did love you, Scott. We did. I could tell immediately that you shared our vision for our new kitchen. You were so enthused and eager to please.You didn't care that we wanted to convert from electric to gas. You weren't put off by our request to add a window. You said all the right things.
Remember how we shopped for granite? I can still picture you in the store (oddly in slow motion) sharing your expertise and wisely talking us out of the "cheap stuff."
The first few months of demo and constructions went so well. But then, something changed. Something went awry. I should have picked up on the signs. When the wrong cabinets were delivered you didn't apologize and offer to fix the problem. No, you implied that they were exactly what I ordered.
Really Scott? Any idiot could tell the difference between Caramel and Honey Spice. Did you think I was a fool? Did you think I just wouldn't notice?
And all the phone calls and texts you received while you were on our job - deep down I knew they were from other clients. I tried to pretend it didn't bother me, but it did.
Soon things really fell apart and you stopped showing up, sending one or two workers in your stead, and only dropping by once a week to check in.
Then, they stopped coming too and my phone calls to you went straight to voice mail.
I feel so stupid, Scott. How could I have fallen for your act?
I'll admit I can be controlling at times, but I didn't deserve this.
I'm so angry because I made a lot of sacrifices in the last six months and I haven't complained. I kept my mouth shut when your Bobcat knocked over my mailbox. I never said anything about the fast food containers your workers left on my lawn. And when you didn't show for a morning meeting, I didn't get upset. Sure, I left a few dozen messages on your voice mail, but I was genuinely worried about you.
I'm trying to be mature here, and give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe something in your life was more important than my kitchen.
Did someone die, Scott? If so, just tell me. I'll understand and give you a few days to grieve.
Or maybe you're ill? Do you need a kidney? Who knows, I might be a match. Really, I'll happily give you mine. I'll give you my liver, my blood, my lung, anything. If it would just get you back here to finish my G-damn kitchen!
Scott, we're so close. It looks like a kitchen, but it's not. It's like one of those kitchen sets on a TV show, the appliances are there, the fixtures are new and shiny, but it's not a kitchen, Scott. Nothing's connected. Nothing's finished. I can't cook. I can't put my plates in the cupboards. I can't use my wine cooler or my two-drawer stainless steel dishwasher.
I just want my kitchen.
I'll do anything, Scott, if you would just return my phone call.