n our last installment, our columnist had found her dream house… but then her daughter was devastated by the prospect of a move, and the plan was abandoned. Though she stands to lose thousands of dollars, will our writer let the house slip away?

Wednesday, 10 a.m.
It’s done. I have officially cancelled my offer to purchase the lovely little bungalow. While my daughter must be celebrating, all I feel is a hard little knot of resentment swelling in my chest. Of course I understand her unwillingness to move, her stubborn attachment to the one vestige of

	It’s done. I have officially cancelled my offer to purchase the lovely little bungalow.

her old life when we were a “real” family. I also know that she’s just a kid, and can’t possibly understand (and doesn’t really care about) what the new house meant for me, a chance to begin anew.

Wednesday, 7:20 p.m.
I pass the bungalow on my way home from work and I ache. I see the big brick front porch and masses of rhododendron and Rose of Sharon at the side of the house, the sweet entryway with the retro aluminum screen door, and I think, this house could have been mine. Instead I am on my way to my McMansion in the suburbs with its big drafty rooms filled with furniture I couldn’t afford to buy for myself today.

I pull into the driveway and notice that the tough, intrusive English ivy has pulled the storm windows off their frames and has worked its way under several panels of vinyl siding. I am home. Damn it.

Thursday, 7:30 p.m.
I go online and re-read my profile. The picture is starting to look dated; my hair is shorter and blonder now and I’m about five pounds heavier. I know should probably replace the picture with something more recent, but I don’t want to. It’s one of the few photos of me in which I actually look cute (which I am, by the way).

I am one of those unfortunate souls who looks terrible in photos. There’s a woman in my office who’s only so-so (and that’s being generous) but after I saw her head shot online, I was astounded to discover that she photographs like a beauty queen: dazzling smile, great cheekbones, gorgeous eyes. At the risk of sounding bitter and petty: It’s not fair.

Friday, 3 a.m.
I am dreaming about a kitten, a little calico mewing at my feet. I wake up and

The main disadvantage to taking down my profile is that I’ll miss the winks and flirting messages.

realize it’s not a cat but my daughter, crying in her bedroom. I shuffled down the hallway and knock on her door. Between chokes and sobs she tells me that she’s crying because “we almost moved.”

Oh no. This cannot be happening! I backed out of the deal, surrendered two thousand dollars in earnest money, lost the house of my dreams, and here’s my reward: My daughter is still crying and she still hates me for ruining her life. I can’t win.

I want to point out that many of her friends have moved to new houses, often because their parents got divorced and now their mothers can’t afford to live in their big, expensive suburban houses. Above all, I want to remind her that WE ARE NOT MOVING. We are staying in this house. But I know from experience that nothing I could say now would help. My daughter is now in vapor lock. There is no reasoning with her. All I can do is stand there and feel miserable. Eventually she goes back to sleep but I never do.

Tuesday, 8:40 p.m.
I decide to take down my dating profile. I think I need a break from dating, take some time to focus on my kids and work. My therapist would surely consider this progress. She thinks I’m too fixated on finding a man. She’s probably right.

The main disadvantage to taking down my profile is that I’ll miss the winks and flirting messages. It’s a real ego boost, that kind of attention. I happened to mention this to my friend Sherry and she responded, unkindly, by telling me most men will give attention to any woman with a pulse, “so don’t flatter yourself.”

Even if she’s right, the comment has me seriously considering ending our friendship.Yes, I’ve known her since I was in middle school. We went to our first rock concert together (Led Zeppelin), tried cigarettes, made prank phone calls (“Is your refrigerator running?”), endured chemistry class, weathered her mother’s death when we were in high school, and then my father’s only a year later.

But then, as now, Sherry’s blunt and critical comments made me feel lousy about myself, about men, and my life. I hate the idea of losing a friendship rooted in so much history, but is that reason enough to stay connected to someone who, increasingly, doesn’t understand my circumstances or my needs?

Sara Susannah Katz is a writer in the Midwest.

Read Single In The Suburbs, Part 51