The last week was worse than watching paint dry.
It was watching grout dry.
A version of a shower had arrived.
Hot water too.
Hot water had been a fight—willpower against space.
We won. Just.
A week earlier we’d been jumping around like kids. High fives. Laughing as hot water came through the kitchen tap.
Now we checked it daily.
Instructions said 48 hours.
That didn’t account for canal winter.
So we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Two sheets of moisture-resistant MDF. Screwed in place.
A plastic curtain, stapled to the ceiling.
Not glam. Not even passable.
But a week later—
watertight.
The sump kicked in. Glugging the water from the tray.
Ready.
Matt black tiles turned glossy.
Steam filled the cubicle.
Step in.
Oh.
My.
God.
Couldn’t see tears for the water.
But they were there.