She looked at the fogged window. At the blurry shape of the maple tree she'd planted when the kids were little. At the street where she'd watched mail trucks and school buses and, once, a neighbor's runaway golden retriever.
That night, Arlene sat in her armchair with a blanket over her knees. The fog in the window caught the streetlight, turned it into a soft, glowing orb. She thought about her husband, Frank. How he'd insisted on double-pane windows when they built the addition. "Good insulation," he'd said. "They'll last." can double pane windows be repaired
Arlene stood beside him as the sun broke through the clouds. For the first time in weeks, she could see the oak tree again. Every branch. Every last stubborn leaf. She looked at the fogged window
She called three window companies the next morning. The first two gave the same response: replacement only. Twelve hundred dollars for the living room. Eight hundred for the kitchen. "The seal's failed," they said, as if that explained everything. "Moisture gets in, and there's no way to clean it." That night, Arlene sat in her armchair with
The next morning, she called Bob back.
"Not like a cracked mug, no. But there's a process. Defogging. You drill a tiny hole in the glass, inject a cleaner, suck out the moisture, then install a one-way valve to keep it dry. Costs about a third of replacement."
"Can double pane windows be repaired?" she asked the hardware store clerk on a Saturday afternoon.