The response to last week’s piece about how we spend our days was overwhelming, and deeply rewarding for me.

Since I hit publish, I’ve received dozens of emails and texts from people detailing their day. Each one is private, not to be shown or shared. That trust is a gift I don’t take for granted.

It also tells me that you might want more of these. If that’s the case, let me know in the poll below.

I love an annual tradition. It’s built-in hope: No matter what, you’ll always have something to look forward to.

For a couple of summers, I went to Maine, but finding affordable housing became too difficult, and my dream of an annual trip to Maine with Busy ground to dust.

So, when my friend told me someone she knew was renting her house in Maine for a song (meaning, even I could afford it), I asked to be put in touch.

I thought maybe the tradition had found its way back.

It hadn’t

Instead, I stumbled into one of those invisible rules about family that married people don’t know exists.

The house is close to hers and I tried to tamp down my excitement; dial back my imagined excursions to thrift stores in Camden, hiking Harriman Point and maybe even a day trip to Lane’s Island Preserve on Vinalhaven, just for the views walking there. And obviously, the outdoor dinner parties.

I was walking my dog Busy when I called her. She was an older woman — late 60s, maybe. And her voice sounded solar-powered; pure, and filled with an earthy nature.

“Since you’re X’s friend, I can make an exception when it comes to kids. How many do you have?” she asked. 

“Oh,” I answered, feeling lucky for once, to announce how many kids I had. “I will be bringing zero children. But I do have a small dog.”

“We love dogs. And great about the children.”

“So, just you and your partner and dog?”

“No, just me and my dog.”

And then, a silence. 

“Oh my,” she said. “I’m afraid this is too much house for you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s really meant for a family.”

I think I flinched, and then stammered, “Oh, OK—”

“I think we’ll just put it on VRBO. There IS an area downstairs that’s a self-contained apartment. It’s just one room, but it has a bathroom and a kitchen. If it works out with renters this summer, perhaps you can come back next summer and stay there while we use the house.”

“Okay, yeah. That sounds great,” I said, disappointed.

“Otherwise, I’m afraid it’s just too big for you.”

“Well, thanks for your time,” I said. We hung up and I looked at Busy, who was happily greeting a new dog friend on the street, entirely unaware she'd just been demoted to non-family by a stranger seemingly obsessed with families.

This wasn't the first time someone said that to me.

A decade ago, I looked at a small two-bedroom apartment someone I knew was renting out. I loved it. They were giving me an amazing deal, and I couldn’t wait. But, days later, I got a phone call. They felt guilty renting it to one person when there were so many families looking for housing.

At the time, I thought: Totally fair.

Now I'm not so sure.

Because having given it a lot of thought, I now realize that neither experience was about housing. It was about something more corrosive.

It was about the invisible rules that decide who counts.