Suddenly I realize with a jolt why they aren’t coming back: I have been classified as a “difficult customer”

Thursday afternoon, and I’m making chicken soup, chopping onions in my newly renovated kitchen. I reach for a zucchini and squint a bit as I cut it; the shadow from the upper cabinets above making it just a bit too dark on the counter. I look up at the panel where the under-cabinet lighting is supposed to be installed and sigh. Time to try Nadav — my kitchen contractor — again. I pick up my phone, take a deep breath, and dial. It rings once. Twice, three times, then goes to voicemail. I hang up and call again. This time, Liat, Nadav’s wife, answers.

“Hi, Rachel.” Her voice is syrupy sweet, a faint Israeli accent lightly dusting her words. “It’s not that I’m trying to avoid you,” she croons. “It’s just that we are so, so busy, you can’t imagine.” She stretches out the last word so that it conjures up a football stadium filled with kitchen cabinets. I’ve been hearing this line from her for the last year, as I’ve tried repeatedly to get her husband to come back and finish the job.

“I know, I know,” I say. “But I would be so appreciative if Nadav could come back and finish up, you know, all the little things that weren’t completed.”

Liat promises me that she won’t forget about me and that they will come as soon as they can. I wait a week or two and hope he’ll come back, but the whole frustrating scene repeats itself.