homecoming

It’s a Sunday night in mid-August and once again, we’re checking our phones every thirty seconds. “If someone is trying to spend less time on their phones,” I tell Jacob, “they shouldn’t try to buy a house.” The phone rings. “I’m so sorry,” our realtor tells us yet again, “you didn’t get the house.” Crushed, dejected, disappointed, we go back to dinner. This is our eighth offer in four months; we wonder if we’ll ever have a home again.

 An hour later, the phone rings again. Jean’s voice has a different edge this time. “Guess what?” she says. “You know how sometimes the sellers change their mind at the last minute? Well, it happened again. The house is yours if you still want it.” Jacob and I lock eyes in disbelief; I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I’ve been dreaming of hearing you say those words for months,” I tell Jean. After we hang up the phone, we sit in shocked silence. My dinner lies entirely forgotten. Is this really it?

Blame it on hindsight bias, but something was different about this house. When I first found the listing, I looked at the photos on repeat for 48 hours, something I’d never done in the hundreds (thousands?) of houses we’d looked at over the past eight months. When we walked into the entry I gasped involuntarily, my hands clutched under my chin. It needed some work, but it was the most amazing house I’d ever seen. “We have to get you this house,” Jean said after she saw me hyperventilating over the blush pink tiled bathroom. 

Running through the house was a thread of familiarity, but how, since I’d never been here before in my life? It wasn’t until our offer got accepted that I remembered—I had seen this house before. A year ago, when we first started thinking about moving, I’d had a vision of our next home: an understated mid-century house in a quiet neighborhood, shrouded in leafy vegetation. I’d given up hope of ever finding it, and yet here it stood.

When we decided to make an offer on the house, Jean informed us that the odds weren’t in our favor. There were two other offers in hand: one that was cash; one that was higher than ours and waived inspection. All we had to offer were our emotions. I wrote a heartfelt letter to the sellers, whose parents had built the house in 1957. It was their dream family home; four children and a legacy were raised within its walls. The house was so beloved it was mentioned in the owner’s obituary earlier this year. I stressed that its integrity would not be lost with us. We crossed our fingers and knocked on wood; shot up a prayer and tried not to jinx our chances. This wasn't the first time we’d put our faith into an emotional appeal. I only hoped it would work this time. 

When we heard the good news, I asked Jean what swayed the sellers’ minds. “It was your letter,” she replied. “They felt that the house should belong to you.” 

Moving has been a much harder process than we ever anticipated, but this is the house that makes it all worth it. On our first night we had champagne and chipotle; take a picture, my sister said, this is a historic moment. We went to sleep on a camping mattress in an echoing room cocooned by crickets and whispering leaves. It’s the closest I’ve felt to being home in months.