In July 2021, still reeling from the pain and trauma wrought by a decade of narcissistic abuse, I bought a house. Becoming a solo homeowner had not been on my agenda. However, not long after he moved out in March, 2021, the landlords sold the property on which we rented a lovely guesthouse.

I turned to a local realtor, Carrie, to help me find a place for myself, my dogs, and my horses. In the town where I live—about ten miles from the Louisiana line and the same distance, more or less, from 1950—landlords seldom advertise decent rental properties. Instead, property owners hide their listings with realtors and leave it to the agents to find “suitable” tenants.

“What’s available to rent?” I asked Carrie, a popular agent.

“Nothing,” Carrie replied. “Literally, nothing.”

“What’s to buy?” I pressed, open to options.

Carrie thought for a moment. “You can look at my house,” she said. “It’s perfect for you. Wanna see it?”

“Sure!”

We hopped into our vehicles and arrived at her house five minutes later.

“I wasn’t going to sell it,” Carrie said, unlocking the door. “I’ve been a realtor for forty-one years, owned thirty-eight houses, and I’m tired of moving. But, well, here it is. I’ve been thinking of putting it on the market.” She offered no further explanation, but I saw her touch the empty ring finger of her left hand as she spoke.

I nodded, sensing something akin to my story in the shadow of hers. Loss and grief settle differently for everyone, but the language is universal.

I followed Carrie from room to room as she narrated the story of the property’s transformation. “It was an eyesore, really,” she explained, pointing out the structural features of the original footprint. “Just a ratty old farmhouse. Now, it is a new build, pretty much. I probably should have razed it to the ground and started from scratch. It would have cost less.”

I had no experience renovating a house, but I knew the futility of trying to build on something that had never offered much to begin with. The house was lovely. It was obvious that Carrie’s career had given her a designer’s eye. She’d transformed more than a few sows’ ears into silk purses. Where others saw worn-out houses or “fixer-uppers,” she saw opportunities for resurrection. She is well-known in the community for her ability to transform houses into homes, with results that exceed what more average realtors see as limited potential. The house she was offering to sell me showcased her talent, and I sensed that she considered it her opus.

Carrie had orchestrated the metamorphosis of a boxy old 1100-square-foot, two-bedroom, one-bath eyesore on three acres within the city limits into an elegant 2600-square-foot ranch with white metal siding and a brown metal roof. She’d used soft shades of greige with touches of cream and teal throughout, making the rooms calm canvases waiting to be storied by the home’s inhabitants.

Following Carrie from room to room, I felt her sadness that those stories would not be hers. In contrast, my body felt more alive than it had in years. What was it telling me? For years, my heart had pounded in a constant state of hypervigilance, bracing for whatever attack was coming next. Now it beat calm, solid, steady, strong. The sensation of strength felt unfamiliar, catching me off guard. It’d been absent so long that I believed it was gone forever.

Carrie invited me to wander through the rooms alone. “Get a feel for the space.” 

As I wandered from room to room, I tried to name the vibe I’d felt when I entered the house. Safe? No, it was more than that. Then it came to me. Fecund. The house felt fertile, like it was waiting to be brought to life or to bring life to someone. How could a house built from a remnant feel so alive? What vitality had Carrie sensed in the original shabby structure that others had overlooked? What a gift she has to look at something aged and worn and imagine it as it might be.

There was nothing about the house I did not like. But until that morning, I’d not considered becoming a solo homeowner. What could I offer the pretty house in return? Did I have enough? Was I enough? 

My need to relocate amid an inventory-short housing market and an even worse rental economy had collided with Carrie’s desire to close a chapter of her life that had taken an unexpected and painful turn. She’d invested a great deal of money and invaluable resources of the heart into the resurrection of the old farmhouse, only to be knocked off center when betrayal and its burdens etched grief into the form she’d made for love. Now, she needed to raze the home from her heart space. For her, it bore the scars of a happily-ever-after story that succumbed to the weight of an unexpected outcome.

When our paths crossed that morning, Carrie and I shared a need to heal. Her healing required that she leave this space. My healing, I realized, could begin in it. There, in the long white house on the fairground road, our needs collided—hers to sell, mine to buy, hers to leave, and mine to land. Only steps beyond seasons of loss, our hearts, once vital, felt like urns of ash. The house represented grief and loss for Carrie, but my ghosts resided elsewhere.

Alone in the living room, I inhaled tentatively at first, then deeper, savoring the sweet relief of breath and the sensation of freedom. I knew the house was an interstitial space from which I was certain I could find my way home.