Yesterday marked four years since we closed on the Modage. The Fella and I have really enjoyed making it our home. We looked at modern built town homes, that have become really popular in our neighborhood, but once I admitted to the Fella that I kind of hated them we stopped.
I couldn’t imagine being eighty years old, walking up and down all those stairs. I couldn’t imagine not having space for a garden. I had an image in my mind of how home would look and three stories of ultra-modern monster wasn’t it. I knew I wanted one floor with no stairs. I wanted a place we could put down roots; a place were we could get old. The Fella suggested the neighborhood where he grew up.
We moved at breakneck speed. Which is strange for us; we are usually very deliberate in decision making processes. Everything just fell into place so beautifully, like kismet. We met an amazing realtor at an open house. He introduced us to our mortgage company. My grandparents gave us a generous leg up; we had enough saved for earnest money and closing costs. We were approved. We found two candidates that met our criteria.
I fell in love with the first one the moment we walked through. I knew it was home. It felt like home. We went to the second one and it didn’t feel quite the same. The fella and I went back and forth between the two. Ultimately our realtor walked us through the first house again. We just knew. We made an offer that night.
There was some weirdness on the seller’s end, when she decided to raise the asking price by nearly 12K. She countered. We countered. She didn’t accept and we walked away. It hurt to walk away. We agonized over the decision. Then she came back, with a new counter. We accepted before she could change her mind. 60 days of waiting and the Modage was ours.
We dubbed her the Modage because she was a cottage filled with Mid Century Modern things. Sometimes there’s a bit of buyers remorse; houses are a lot of work. Mostly we are just proud.