Last weekend, flying back to Austin from Las Vegas, and knowing we would be closing on our house a few days later, I wrote this, planning to post it yesterday:
Today we sold our house. Our darling brick house. The house that we bought one day before my 21st birthday. The house we imagined we might bring our first child home to (clearly that did not happen). The house we stayed up late painting in the first year we lived there. The house I opened my acceptance letter to UT in. It breaks my heart to say goodbye to this house.
Over the weekend, we’ve finished packing up the house, watching it slowly become more like the bare house we first saw three years ago. The bookshelves emptied out, and then the pictures came off the wall, and then room by room, there was nothing left by walls and wood floors.
We’ve been lucky. I know that. In this terrible market, our house only sat on the market for four days. For the most part, the last four and a half weeks have been pretty smooth to get ready for closing. I had no desire to hang on to the house, to deal with renters, or sudden repairs. The woman who bought it has family in the area, and it makes me happy to know her grandchildren will come to the house and play in the yard or the finished garage. She didn’t make us repaint the dark brown/purple bedroom we’ve loved so much. I’m grateful the house issue, which I’ve worried about for nearly a year, is taken care of and no longer a worry.
But, oh, I want to weep when I think about walking out of that house for the last time. I’ve been so very happy in our house. And now it’s not ours anymore.
It’s all very melodramatic and obviously written by someone who had not yet packed up a three bedroom house into a moving truck and then into a storage unit. It definitely wasn’t written by someone who, at 10:30 p.m. on a weeknight, was scrubbing out the fridge or retouching the paint in the living room or cleaning out the toilet.
Moving has a way of helping you forget how much you loved a place – after all the boxing and sorting and labeling and hauling and cleaning, I was more than ready to walk out and not have to worry about it anymore. Lock that door up for the last time and let’s drive away.
As we walked out of the title company office after closing yesterday, (small) check in hand, Bart said to me, with a huge grin, “We’re no longer home owners!” and I laughed right back. We high-fived in the hallway.
Goodbye, darling brick house. Have a nice life.