Chapter 14 - The Buyers Loved Everything We Had Just Fixed
The Chicago couple came Sunday at eleven.
Monica walked them through.
Sarah and I left because apparently homeowners hovering near strangers lowers everybody's quality of life.
We drove to a diner.
I hated it.
Sarah loved watching me hate it.
“You've checked your phone six times.”
“Seven.”
“No one is stealing the house.”
“That isn't the concern.”
“What is?”
“I don't know.”
She smiled.
I gave her a look.
“Don't.”
Forty-five minutes later, Monica called.
“They like it.”
My stomach tightened.
“How much?”
Sarah laughed.
“I knew that would be your first question.”
Monica heard.
“They're discussing numbers.”
“We didn't set an asking price.”
“They know.”
“Then what exactly are we doing?”
Monica answered:
“Finding out whether someone wants your house badly enough for you to care.”
I hated how effective that sentence was.
The couple made an offer that evening.
$682,000.
No request to replace the roof.
Obviously.
No request for siding.
Tree.
Fence.
They loved the exterior.
I stared at the number.
Sarah sat across from me.
After selling costs and mortgage payoff, we'd walk away with roughly four hundred thousand.
Not cash to spend recklessly.
But options.
Buy a smaller place outright or nearly so.
Rent for a year.
Invest.
Reduce how much of our life sat inside shingles and property taxes.
I said:
“We could counter.”
Sarah stared.
“That was fast.”
“They opened strong. Maybe they're expecting—”
“Daniel.”
I stopped.
She smiled.
“Your brain is doing the thing.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to sell?”
I looked at the offer.
“I want to negotiate.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“No.”
I stood and walked outside.
The sun was setting across the new roof.
Every repair looked annoyingly good.
Sarah followed.
We sat on the front steps.
I said:
“If we sell, Caleb's mess becomes part of the reason.”
“Yes.”
“Insurance becomes part.”
“Yes.”
“That feels like getting pushed out.”
Sarah thought.
“Then we don't sell.”
I looked at her.
“That easy?”
“No.”
She stared at the yard.
“But we shouldn't stay just to prove nobody pushed us.”
I nodded.
The neighbor's dog barked.
A sprinkler clicked somewhere.
Normal suburbia.
Sarah said:
“When we bought this house, I wanted permanence.”
“I know.”
“I thought owning meant nobody could tell us to leave.”
“Except insurance companies.”
“Apparently.”
I smiled.
She continued.
“Maybe permanence was never the building.”
I almost said something profound.
Then she added:
“Don't ruin that sentence.”
I laughed.
“Fine.”
She looked at me.
“What did the house mean to you?”
I thought.
“Proof.”
“Of?”
“That I could take care of us.”
Sarah's face softened.
I continued.
“Dad lost his house when I was nineteen.”
“I know.”
“He spent the rest of his life saying if he'd just worked harder…”
“He worked constantly.”
“I know.”
That was the part I understood now.
Work had not been the missing ingredient.
Sometimes numbers simply won.
I looked at our roof.
“I think I turned owning this place into evidence that I wasn't him.”
Sarah moved closer.
“And selling?”
“Feels like submitting evidence against myself.”
She let that sit.
Then:
“I don't think less of you if we sell.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Not entirely.
I looked at the offer again.
“Do you think less of me if we stay?”
She laughed.
“No.”
“Even with the insurance?”
“Yes.”
“Maintenance?”
“Yes.”
“HVAC is twelve years old.”
“Monica's face scared you.”
“Deeply.”
Sarah rested her head briefly against my shoulder.
May you like
We had until Monday evening to answer.
For once, I did not suggest deciding before bed.
