Hours before signing on our dream home, my husband begged me to rush medicine to his sick father. I was halfway across town when my lawyer called, telling me to rush home immediately. What I walked into when I got there turned my whole world upside down.
Daniel, my husband, and I had spent six years saving for a place of our own.
That meant budgets tighter than a pair of vintage jeans, skipping every vacation that wasn’t a quick drive to a relative’s house, and enduring countless house tours that ended with us exchanging polite, defeated smiles on the curb.
Every single time, there was some fatal flaw: too small, too dark, too expensive, too much work. It was like Goldilocks but with real estate, and nothing was ever just right.