You Don't Like My House? The Emotional Journey of a Home Sale

I loved my house.

Yes, my husband Tony and I had decided to sell it. We needed something bigger and wanted to live in a neighborhood closer to family. But still, I loved it, the old windows and original hardwood floors, the blues and greens I had painted the rooms, the fireplace, the way the sunlight came in during the afternoons, the French doors, the flat backyard, how the confederate vine I planted our first fall now covered the little fence out front.

We brought our baby home to this house. There are pictures of us posing by the front door, where a friend had hung a wreath of pink bows. In the photos, my stomach still pooches out beneath a white T-shirt shirt.

I threw Tony a 40th birthday party here. I learned to cook in this kitchen and hosted dinners on my back deck. I held my daughter countless afternoons in a wicker rocking chair on our front porch, just watching the cars go by.

Sure, I knew it wasn't perfect. But—have I already said this?—I loved my house.

So when we put it on the market, and our real estate agent assured us he loved it too, I fully expected it to sell in no time. It didn't. We didn't even get any offers. OK, the hard truth is nobody came to look at our house twice.

Tony worried about whether we would have to drop the price. He calculated how much cash we would take out at different sale prices—and what we would then be able to afford for our next home. Very practical.

Not me. I hurt. Did these people not see what a special little house we had?

After three months, the contract with our agent expired. We adored him, but we had to face facts. Something was wrong; our house wasn't selling. We had chosen our next dream house, across the street from Tony's brother's family. I imagined our daughter's childhood, playing with her cousins each afternoon, and I fretted that this perfect house would sell before we could make an offer.