To read the entire series of articles from the beginning, click here.
ur columnist, a divorced mom in the Midwest, feels it’s time to make a bigger break with her past… and she knows exactly how to do it!
Wednesday, 8:40 a.m.
I’m driving down Second Street and see a “For Sale” sign outside this charming bungalow, a house I’ve passed a million times and admired the brick porch with the wooden swing, big enough for two. It’s in the neighborhood some people call the “faculty ghetto” because of the preponderance of professors who live there, only blocks away from the south end of the university. The phone number on the sign is easy to remember — mostly five’s — and I notice that it’s for sale by owner. That could mean a lower price; no Realtor commission to pay.
By the time I get to the office, I’m so excited I decide to call the number on the sign. The
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| I have a good feeling about this house… |
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man who answers has a friendly voice. He tells me that the house has wood floors, a brand-new deck, and a newly remodeled bathroom. He also says that I’m the very first caller; he posted the sign only moments before I drove past it. I ask if I can stop by during my lunch break. “Absolutely,” he says. “My wife and I will meet you there.”
Truth be told, I’m a little disappointed that he has a wife. He sounded attractive.
I have nearly two hours before my lunch break, and I can think of nothing but that little house. I need to focus on my work or I’ll never get this report to my boss on time.
Wednesday, 11:45 a.m.
I’m leaving now. I can’t wait to see this place.
Wednesday, 12:07 p.m.
The house is wonderful. Richard (not so attractive after all) and his elegant wife Sue, who seems dressed for a cocktail party in a sleeveless black dress and pearls, give me a tour. Cherry woodwork, oak floors, and a fireplace! There’s a big master bedroom on one side of the great room, two smaller bedrooms on the other side. The kitchen, with its original metal cabinets repainted a trendy pea green, is tiny. That’s fine, since I don’t have time to cook. The basement is mostly finished with a laundry area and kitschy Tiki bar. The back deck overlooks a nice garden and there’s a detached two-and-a-half car garage, unusual for a neighborhood where most people are forced to park on the street.
The best thing about this house is that I don’t see Craig anywhere. In my current house I see
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| “The best thing about this house is that I don’t see Craig anywhere.” |
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him in the kitchen, where he frequently served as short-order cook. I see him on the back deck, feet propped on the railing as he read the newspaper. And I see him in the bedroom, where I competed with the TV for his attention.
This house would be a truly fresh start. The only downside is that it faces busy Second Street, a main east-west thoroughfare. The good news is that my kids aren’t toddlers; I’m not worried about them walking off the porch and into traffic.
I have a good feeling about this house.
Wednesday, 1:00 p.m.
I know I shouldn’t do this, but I make an offer. Right here, right now. When it comes to big-ticket shopping, I’m definitely an impulse buyer, but I have yet to make a choice I find myself regretting. I offer ten thousand dollars below the asking price. Richard and Sue immediately accept. I write a check for $2,000 in earnest money but ask them not to cash it until tomorrow, when I’ll get paid. They agree.
Wednesday, 1:15 p.m.
Oh my God. I’m moving.
Wednesday, 5:30 p.m.
Despite my excitement about the new house, I manage to finish the report for my boss. I run a spell check, then check again the old fashioned way (using my brain) because he’s a stickler for typos and improper grammar. I attach the document to an email and dispatch it to him. I think I’ve done a stellar job, but I’m not expecting kudos; it’s not his style to compliment. On the other hand, he’s fairly quick to criticize. Therefore, whenever he doesn’t criticize, I’ve decided that he’s praising me in his own way. Maybe I’m just rationalizing but it’s how I find the fortitude to face another day.
Wednesday, 5:45 p.m.
On the way home I call my daughter to tell her the news.
“Guess what?” I say.
“What?”
“I found us a new house.”
