In This House
No one really understood why he never sold the house. Why a single man who worked insane amounts of overtime and, really, just lived in the basement and living room, held on to a 3 bedroom, 2 bath family home, with all the required maintenance and yard work implied by such. He regularly hired out the lawnwork to a neighborhood kid, because the heat and humidity of a D.C. summer meant endless growth of grass and shrubbery. He struggled to find the time to give housecleaning a lick and a promise, so had by necessity found a woman to come in every week do laundry and the deep cleaning.
None of his ex-wives had really understood his attachment to the place. Just went to show how ill suited they were for him, that they overlooked such a fundamental part of his personality (Semper Fi - Always Faithful. So many ways to interpret that if they only took the time to consider him). They just accepted his request for a pre-nup stating the house was, and would always be his (in hindsight, given the state of his bank accounts, maybe those pre-nups should have also included a codicil on exactly how much they could clean him out in a divorce).
But that didn't really matter. The pre-nups were in place, and he held on to what was important to him: the height marks penciled on the doorframe to the last bedroom on the left, the dent in the livingroom hardwood where a laughing woman had dropped her end of the couch while rearranging furniture a lazy Sunday afternoon. The little cubbyhole under the stairs a perfect size to hide a five-year old in a game of hide and seek.
He was meticulous regarding home maintenance and repair. Many a time over the years he had Ducky or Tony over to the house helping to re-paint the kitchen, or rewire a light fixture, or replace rotting boards in the porch. But when DiNozzo inquired why he never tried to fix the squeaky treads on the third and sixth stairs, he wouldn't (or maybe, couldn't) bring himself to tell his friend about a little girl trying to sneak down the stairs Christmas morning. And that bedroom door always stayed closed, so no one saw the pencil marks.
He could never admit to anyone his fear. That if he weren't in their house, then maybe he wouldn't hear their laughter. That he'd lose the memory of seeing his wife curled up in their bed with a little bundle nuzzled to her chest. Or he'd forget the feel of tiny arms wrapped around his neck, her body clinging to his back as he raked leaves on a crisp autumn day.
So he stayed. In their house.