“Now, I know it looks bigger than what you were thinking, but it’s very cozy inside,” Niki says. “Just wait. You’ll love it.”
My mom loves it before we even walk in the door. It’s pretty obvious with the way her gaze goes soft and she seems to reach out to pet it from afar.
Not that I can blame her.
I’d be within walking distance of her house, which would mean more Grandma time for the baby, and more baby time for Grandma.
But when Niki hands us the promotional packet, the first thing I look at is the listing price.
Definitely not cozy, even if it’s less than I’d expect for a house in this neighborhood.
“Divorce fire sale,” she whispers. “Don’t say anything about it inside. I don’t know if they have their cameras turned on.”
Awesome.
As expected, Mom loves it, and I have waking nightmares about how much it would cost to furnish the four bedrooms, two living rooms, den, office, basement, and sitting room.
I’ve saved a good bit over the past seven years, but savingthatmuch wasn’t actually physically—or fiscally—possible.
The next three houses aren’t right either.
The family home in the Belmont District truly is cozy. It’s in the right price range and it doesn’t seem to need any major upgrades or renovations to be livable, but it’s also on the main road into the neighborhood, and we see a dog almost get hit by a car as we’re leaving.
I picture Jessica, and the possibility tips into theabsolutely notcolumn.
Even if I could logic my way into believing Jessica wouldn’t run into the street, I imagine the baby toddling out there, and the hormones take over and I break down bawling.
Not the house’s fault.
As Niki says, location matters.
There’s a bungalow in a neighborhood of smaller homes closer to downtown that has uneven air conditioning. It’s quaint in that you can tell it’s been expanded a few times, but we smell mold in the basement.
Not hard to tell that Mom’s glad to have a solid reason to issue a veto. It was already clear she didn’t want me to like it—Oh, Ziggy, it’s so far from the garage to the kitchen. You don’t want to spend the next twenty years hauling groceries that far—but it’s even more clear she’s glad to have a health reason to stand on.
This house is perfect for someone. That someone isn’t me though.
And then there’s the last house.
It’s about six blocks from Holt’s house in a part of the neighborhood that I haven’t explored on walks with Jessica yet.
Light blue siding. Simple landscaping. We can see fromthe front that the backyard has a fence. It’s old, but from the outside, it looks like it’s been well cared for.
Like Holt’s house.
My heart picks up.
This.
This could be it.
I slide a look at Niki as she climbs out of her car behind us and she winks at me.
Oh my god.
The last house was a setup.
She knew Mom would hate it.
