we bought a house (then gave it back)

Photo by Mert Kahveci on Unsplash

We bought the house on a Tuesday. The pink-washed bungalow from the fifties had white paneled walls and laminate floor covering the original hardwood. Three small bedrooms and a fireplace. Oversized windows filtering in warmth and natural light.

Our realtor, who is also a friend, called as I was driving to acupuncture. It was the afternoon, and the spring heat in southern california was beginning to make itself known. The air conditioner and traffic muffled her voice, even on speakerphone, so I leaned towards the dashboard just in time to hear her. 

Congratulations! Neither of us could believe it. This was only the second offer—the second time trying to buy a home in los angeles. It had been less than a week. My husband and I had prepared ourselves to be at this for months. Competition is fierce, things move fast, everyone kept telling us. Somehow, we had slipped through the backdoor in only four days. 

The speed of the sale felt like an ordination. That is to say, fast felt good; it felt like what I needed, and I craved the urgency and to-do lists that came with buying a home. I yearned for an impulsive spirit to rescue me from monotony but also from the all-consuming grief of the last two years—grief for infertility and miscarriages, grief for failed book deals, grief for my sister’s illness. My shoulders seemed to relax as I dreamt about a summer living ten miles from the coast. I felt weightless while planning paint colors, while texting friends the news, while downloading thrifting apps. A few e-signatures were all that was required of me, and the boulder I’d been trying to push was finally budging. Soon enough, it would roll down the hill. Soon enough, gravity would take it away.

*

Our house. I kept calling it, even before the sellers accepted our offer. I decorated the rooms while falling asleep, imagined the baby we’d bathe in the ceramic tub. 

But it was the orange tree in the backyard I fell in love with first, then the sunroom. Both needed work, both were sagging, but both had “potential,” and this was all I could see. Not the cracks in the counters, nor the water stains on the ceiling, nor the broken branches desperate for pruning. It’s funny how your mind can create false scenarios. With very little effort, you can live in a reality that isn’t yours and isn’t meant for you.

*

Wednesday was a whirlwind of paperwork and phone calls, juggling work meetings while running to fedex to print and sign and fax and text the lenders. I held my breath as I wired over half our checking account to a woman I’d never met. Too many zeros sent to a stranger more than forty miles away. Received, she emailed as I triple-checked her name on Google to make sure she was real. 

On Thursday, my dad met us at the house for the inspection. The sellers had already conducted a pre-inspection, which was a seventy-page report of photos and recommendations. But the inspector wasn’t familiar with roofs. All he knew was that our roof was old and there were signs of water damage. Contact a professional for further evaluation, the report said. 

My dad, a roofing professional, was in town for a work trip, so he agreed to come by. When he pulled his car into the neighborhood, I stood on the sidewalk and pointed out where to park, as if this was an ordinary weekday and for years I’d been telling visitors where to park their cars. 

Dad greeted the neighbors first, asking them about the area, about the noise. The house sat next to a busy street, near train tracks, kiddy cornered to a gas station. The cost of living in southern california, I reminded him. Plus, we plan to replace the windows. 

We didn’t have a ladder and so Dad’s new neighbor friend let us borrow one. On the roof, he stuck his finger through a shingle and made a hole the size of a golf ball. I pictured his pointer finger wiggling in the dark attic, poking around like a worm in the soil. He didn’t need to say anything when he climbed back down the ladder; I could read it on his face. The entire roof was failing and needed to be replaced. Eighteen thousand dollars, the neighbor said when we returned the ladder. I can replace it for that amount, if you want.

*

In the back bedroom overlooking the sagging orange tree, I begged my husband for clarity. Then I begged my dad. Then our realtor/friend. Is this a bad idea? Is this the right house? Is this a good investment? I wanted to know. I needed someone to tell me. Everything had seemed perfect at the open house; we were so certain when we made the offer. But now I wasn’t so sure.

More than this though I was desperate for someone to tell me what to do after more than two years of having to be the strong one, of having to make decisions about my health and my body, of having to always be in control. I suddenly felt exhausted by the house but also by my life. A dog barked in the yard next door, which set off the dogs across the street. Traffic blared, and the orange tree sagged some more. I closed my eyes and heard myself talking, rationalizing, throwing out math and numbers for how we would pay for it all with the prospect of fertility treatments on the horizon. We contemplated whether the sellers would budge on their previous word that they would not pay for any issues found during inspections. 

And then, there it was. The small voice I didn’t want to hear but knew was there all along. She made herself known right then.

This isn’t right, she said. This isn’t right.

*

My mind has been corkscrews lately. I’ve learned this is what managing anxiety looks like, even with a therapist, lifestyle changes, meditation, and even while on antidepressants. We bought a house last week because, after 28 months of unexplained infertility, the solution seemed simple: change your circumstances. Control the only thing you can control. 

If I can’t force my body to have a baby, I can buy a house at least. If I can’t heal my sister from her pain, at least I can nurture an orange tree. And if I can’t find the words to write another book after my first one failed, at least I can pack moving boxes and plan a garage sale. Surely this will fix all my problems or at least mask them in new veils. Deceiving yourself is hard but not impossible, not if you slap on new paint.

*

Three days after we bought the house, we gave it back, and I felt both awful and relieved. Three days after we gave the house back, I ran three miles and I haven’t run that far since I was in college. I loathe running, but the fertility drugs I’m on force my body to make extra hormones, and so while my lows bury me in trenches, the highs have me running until my skin is slick with sweat and I can’t feel my legs anymore. For a short while, I am only a beating heart and lungs screaming. This is a gift.

I wish we could have returned more than the house. I wish we could also return the grief, the anxiety, the pain that comes with the unexpected, with the things in life we can’t control. Though I don’t regret the process or the brief moments of hope the house gifted me, it was never meant for us. There were literal and not-so-literal holes that we couldn’t see, not at first anyway.

The house was only ever meant as a temporary distraction that would later turn into a compass and point me toward the pain I keep ignoring. This is the only thing I’m certain of. A new home was never going to fix our problems as much as I longed for that outcome. Movement feels good. It feels like progress even when it isn’t. But sometimes sitting still and facing the grief is the only solution. xx

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Weekly Feels

• This Granta essay by

  TaraShea Nesbit
  about loss and grief.

• I am always shattered by the raw depth of Sleeping At Last’s lyrics. Their newest song is gutting and unleashes so many feelings.

• For when you want to feel good while scrolling: Don Bachardy’s house tour (drool); this reunion video that makes me tear up every time; this short parody of Tiny Beautiful Things (which I loved!).