When I sold my house in Minnesota to move to Georgia, I thought I'd never love another house as much as I loved that one. It was a custom home that I'd had built and I'd chosen the counters, the lighting, the appliances--everything. I expected my house hunt in Atlanta to be long and excruciating and I thought I'd drive my Realtor crazy.
But that wasn't what happened. We looked at three homes and then met with a builder's agent on a ranch (on a basement) in a new subdivision. This was literally the last house they had. And the more the builder's agent talked, the more panicky I became. My Realtor noticed this, hustled us out of there, and on the car ride back to where I was living, I asked if she could set up a second viewing of one of the homes we'd seen that day.
My house. Or what would be my house.
It had this serene retreat in the backyard. I literally couldn't see my neighbors in the summer. I had a good-sized kitchen and lots of cabinets, and one of my favorite things was the massive master closet I had. There were enough racks to hang all my clothes and shelving for my hats and purses and whatnot. I had a powder room, which I loved, and a covered back patio to sit out and enjoy my backyard retreat. If this house had been on a level lot, I would have stayed there forever.
But it was on a super steep hill--literally the only thing I couldn't live with. I have bad knees and my dad moved in with me after my mom died. I didn't want him going up and down that driveway everyday, but he did that because he wanted to get the mail. I couldn't tell him not to leave the house.
And so we looked for a new home and found one that has enough storage space (my former home did not have enough storage, not even close) and is designed in a way that feels as if there is more separation between the bedrooms, although I think it's about the same.
I'm hoping someday I love the new house as much as the one I'm selling, but today I'm mourning the loss of my home.
