I still remember the way my husband’s laughter died in his throat when he finally saw it—the thick, layered webbing clinging to the walls like something alive, the eggs packed together in pale clusters, the spiders moving in a silent, unsettling rhythm. It wasn’t just a nest; it felt like a secret city that had grown right under our noses while we went about our lives upstairs.
As the exterminator worked, spraying and scraping, I felt a strange mix of guilt and relief. Part of me was horrified that such a thing had existed so close to where we slept; another part was humbled by how easily nature had claimed a forgotten space. Now, each time I open the garage door, I flick on the light and look twice. Not out of fear alone, but out of a newfound respect for what can flourish, unseen, in the places we ignore.
