The house was not glamorous.
The porch boards needed work.
Half the rooms needed fresh paint.
The kitchen cabinets looked like they had survived three decades of questionable decorating decisions.
But it was mine.
I had bought it.
Every imperfect square foot of it.
The summer air smelled like hot pavement, fresh-cut grass, and paint.
There were white streaks on my jeans from working inside all morning.
I remember standing there and feeling a kind of quiet pride that I had never felt before.
The front door creaked when I opened it that morning.
