I was hoping that after we signed this morning things would feel a little different. I was dreading they wouldn’t. I’ve been wrapped in fears and guilt over debt, the concept of money, having, having-not.
The lawyer was surprised that we were first-time home owners. The table sometimes veered into dangerously political conversations. Billy Coulter, the night before, had told me the tale of how HE’D been denied his mortgage at signing and so I dared not believe it was going to happen till it HAPPENED.
But it happened.
And we stepped out into the sunshine with slightly cramped hands, drove down to Ellicott City, and celebrated with fish. And it DID feel better. The house wasn’t any different, and in certain effective ways wasn’t truly any more ours than it had been before (Jack wouldn’t have REALLY cared if we’d painted x, uprooted y, or drilled a hole through z – but we used it as an excuse to Live in stasis) – it certainly hadn’t been cleaned during the signing – but the drama that’d been eating at us since July, and the low-level background uncertainty that comes with renting was suddenly gone.
Heather came over and uprooted the obnoxious bush, refilled the dirt, petted and repotted the worms. We played the Lair. Our Lair. We were a bit sassy with the release of it all and toasted our friends and family, those present and not.
I’m a homeowner.
