On the homefront

I was honest.
“All morning, I’ve been dreading this meeting,” I told the agent, as I leaned on the sink in the kitchen. “But I know it needs to happen.”
“Hey, I understand,” he said, as droplets from the pounding rainstorm ran off his Gor-Tex jacket onto my kitchen floor. “But it is the right move, I think, for you.”
I put my home on the market Friday.
I’m having trouble keeping up with the mortgage, along with everything else (like eating).
And it is priced to sell.
At a break-even point.
“You must be pissed at you ex,” a friend said.
Why? Because I refinanced to pull money out to create a business? That was the right move at the time.
I refuse to second-guess the past.
But plan to move forward.
And while I am sad to have a red, white and blue “For Sale” sign in my yard and a lock box on my door that allows for strangers to come in for a peek while I am away, it is the right thing to do.
The house represents a last anchor point that has me grounded to a past life. It has me tied down to past things.
Get free or the mortgage, and I am free to move to the next great adventure in my life.
The next chapter.
I see that.
Still, the move has made me melancholy and introspective. In a place where alone time is good time.

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