A House Is Not A Home

I was never so happy as the day I purchased my first house. It was three years ago, just as the market started to turn. People were losing their homes, and by some small miracle, I bought mine. It’s a tiny place with barely enough closet space for all my shoes. There was nothing in dire need of improvement—It wouldn’t fall down if the termites stopped holding hands while one of them sneezed—but I still changed a few things to make it my own. In the words of Luther Vandross, “a house is not a home.“ I had to make it a home. Now I have the nicest, tiniest house on the block.

I am so happy and so proud of my home, and even more proud of myself for somehow being able to convince a bank to lend me the money while the rest of the world was defaulting on their loans. I have re-financed twice since then, and now I can almost afford the payments—I can always sell the shoe collection! 

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