We had just gotten home from looking at a potential rental house. It was a sweet home — brand new and white, with a front porch and a beautiful view of the mountains outside, a constant light breeze moving through like it lived there.
The owners showed it to us themselves, sharing how hard they’d worked to build it, how they wanted it to be enjoyed, cherished. The kids had already picked out their bedrooms. I noticed the look of joy, peace settle into my husband’s eyes as we stood in the backyard, him already envisioning chickens and a raised garden where we stood. Our future.
Everyone loved it. I couldn’t tell her quickly enough that we were interested — this woman who had already mentioned the farmers market down the road and the waterfall hike just six minutes away, who felt less like a landlord and more like a door opening, a friend.
And then, we got back home.
