The Night Before Everything Could Change

Written August 27, 2026

Tonight, somewhere, a woman I have never met is deciding whether to sell me her mother’s house.

She is the executor of her mother’s estate, and according to their realtor, the family is having a hard time letting the house go.

I understand that. What feels strange is that while they are trying to figure out how to let it stop being their mother’s house, I am sitting here desperately hoping they will let it become mine.

My phone is next to me. I keep looking at it. Every time it lights up, my stomach drops. Every time it doesn’t, I look anyway.

I know there is nothing I can do tonight. The offer has been made. The contract is in their hands. My realtor has talked to their realtor. The questions have been asked. The explanations have been given. Now there is only waiting, and I have never been particularly good at waiting when the thing on the other side matters this much.

I have spent the last month looking at houses, studying listings, calculating taxes, driving through towns I barely knew, walking through bedrooms and kitchens and basements and trying to imagine whether any of them could hold our life. Some houses were easy to leave. Some I liked enough to picture furniture in. Some I wanted badly enough to make an offer.

I have done this part before.

Twice, actually.

The first house I offered on was one we genuinely loved. I could picture us there. I let myself hope. Then I lost it.

The second one I placed an offer on was stranger. We did not love it when we first walked through. But after losing the first house, I started trying to picture us there anyway. I rearranged it in my head. I imagined how we would use the rooms. Somewhere in that imagining, I changed my own mind and began to want it.

Then we waited thirty-six hours while the seller went back and forth with us, and somewhere during all that waiting I realized how badly I had started to want that house too. We lost that one, too.

I was anxious both times. I watched my phone both times. I wanted both houses.

But I did not cry.

This one was different. I knew it almost immediately.

We had barely stepped into the first room, the kitchen, when I felt it.

Not eventually. Not after I had gone home and mentally arranged the furniture. Not after I had talked myself into the possibilities.

Immediately.

This is supposed to be ours.

And almost as quickly, another thought:

What’s meant to be ours won’t pass us by.

I do not know where that certainty came from. I only know that I felt it.

Not because it was perfect. It wasn’t. There were things I would change. Rooms I would rearrange. Projects I could already see myself doing.

But when we walked through the house, something in me settled.

This is it.

I could see us there. Not in some Pinterest-board version of our lives. In the ordinary version. Shoes by the door. Backpacks dropped somewhere they shouldn’t be. Dinner in the dining room. Laundry upstairs. Kids disappearing into their rooms. Me sitting in the living room at night after everything finally got quiet.

I have already arranged the furniture in my head. I have pictured the boys running up the stairs. I have imagined us standing in front of the house for the picture you take when the sign finally says sold.

Our little family.

Just us three.

Our stuff in those rooms. Our cars in that driveway. Our life inside those walls.

Home.

That is why this waiting feels different.

I liked the other houses. I could picture us in them. I was disappointed when we lost them.

This one has already made me teary-eyed before I even know the answer.

Because I am not trying to imagine whether we could belong there.

Some part of me already believes we do.

And now I am terrified.

Because hope is easy when it is vague. Someday I will buy a house. Someday we will have our own place again. Someday something will work out.

There is safety in someday.

Tonight, someday has an address.

And suddenly hope feels dangerous.

I keep thinking, I need this.

I know, technically, that I don’t. I will survive if the answer is no. I have survived worse things than losing a house.

But after years of rebuilding, of starting over and figuring things out and trying again, I want something I reach for to finally reach back.

I want to hear that I got it. I want to tell the boys. I want to walk through that front door again knowing I am not just visiting. I want the next chapter to start there.

Maybe that is too much to put on a house. Maybe tomorrow I will know that.

But tonight I don’t.

Tonight I feel it in my bones.

This is supposed to be our home.

And somewhere, a woman is holding the contract that could make it so.

So I wait. I watch my phone. I will it to light up. And I sit here in the strange, unbearable space between the life I have now and the life I might wake up to tomorrow.

Nothing has changed yet.

But everything could.

Update:

I wrote this the night of August 27th, while I was waiting to find out whether the offer would be accepted.

The next afternoon, I got the answer.

They said yes.

The house I was so scared to lose is going to be ours.

We’re going home.

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This Could Be Home

On house hunting, hills made for sledding, and the first hint of home

It was early August. We'd seen exactly two houses in our search and already, the boys had developed very different reactions when I announced we were going to see another one.

Holden: “YES!”

Caleb: “Ugh. Why again?”

Still, they came along.

When we pulled into Park Lane, the realtor waved to us from the driveway. Before I’d even stepped inside, I was charmed by the front porch.

Then we walked through the door.

I looked up at the tall ceilings and around at the rooms, and something felt different.

For the first time since I’d started looking at houses, I wasn’t immediately calculating. I wasn’t thinking about square footage or taxes or what might need to be replaced.

I was picturing us there.

I could see us pulling into that driveway at the end of the day. Sitting on that front porch. Coming through that door with backpacks and groceries and all the ordinary pieces of our life.

Yes, I thought. This could be home.

The boys, meanwhile, had their own criteria.

They raced upstairs, where the two bedrooms were almost exact mirror images of each other. Caleb inspected both and immediately claimed the one on the left.

“This one has more plugs.”

Apparently, the great bedroom debate had been settled by electrical outlets.

Meanwhile, I had gone back to worrying about the property taxes.

Out back, the yard sloped downhill, which the boys immediately recognized as a feature rather than a flaw: they could sled.

Another point for Park Lane.

Then there was the basement.

You had to get to it from outside, which already felt ominous. But nevertheless, the realtor headed down first with his flashlight, calling back that it wasn’t really a usable basement, but it had the important basement things: the electrical box, heating equipment, utilities.

I peered down into the dark opening and decided I could take his word for it.

The boys happily followed him down.

Apparently, haunted basement vibes are an adult concern.

Creepy basement aside, there was one other problem I couldn’t quite get past: the house had only one bathroom, and it was downstairs. The boys’ bedrooms would be upstairs.

Later, when we were home, I asked if that would bother them.

Nope. They didn’t care.

Holden announced that he wanted us to buy that house... although his endorsement carried slightly less weight considering he wanted us to buy nearly every house we toured.

But this time, I understood the feeling.

I wanted it too.

For a while, I seriously considered it. I thought about making an offer. I went back and forth, trying to decide whether I could overlook the things that didn’t make sense because of everything about the house that somehow did.

In the end, I couldn’t.

It was too expensive for its size. The taxes worried me. One downstairs bathroom for the three of us wasn’t ideal. Wanting a house to work couldn’t make the numbers work with it.

So I let Park Lane go. It wasn’t our home. But for a little while, it could have been.

And maybe that’s why I still think about it.

Park Lane was the first house that let me see us somewhere else. Not just buying a property or moving our things into different rooms, but coming home. Pulling into our own driveway. Watching the boys race upstairs to the bedrooms they’d already claimed.

For a long time, I wasn't sure I would ever feel that way about a place again. I'd already had a home once. I'd already built a life inside one. And when that life changed, home became something I had to figure out all over again.

In the end, I didn’t find our home that day. But I found the feeling I was looking for.

And maybe that was what I needed to find first. 

That house, that day, reminded me that home wasn't something I had left behind and could never get back.

Home was something we could build again.

In a sloped yard made for sledding. 

In bedrooms waiting to be claimed. 

In a kitchen with blue cupboards I could picture making ours.

It turns out home isn't behind us after all. There's still another version of it somewhere up ahead.

And for the first time, I can see us there.

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Rejection, But Make It Legal (One Minute Memoir)

On Job Interviews, Rejection Letters, and Apparently Losing My Case

Setting: August 2026 — Receiving the court's decision via USPS

A couple months ago while I was job hunting, I applied for an administrative position with a school.

I interviewed. Then they called me back for a second interview. I had made it to the final round.

By the time the rejection letter arrived in my mailbox, though, I had already started a new job... so I wasn’t particularly invested in the outcome anymore. There was no dramatic disappointment. No staring wistfully out a window wondering what might have been.

I opened the envelope mostly out of curiosity.

And that’s when my routine job rejection apparently became a legal matter.

The letter started normally enough. They thanked me for my interest. They explained that after the interview process, they had selected another candidate who better met their needs. Fair enough.

Then came this:

“I regret to inform you that a decision was not made in your favor.”

I read it again.

A decision was not made in my favor.

Hadn’t you… just informed me of that in the previous sentence?

Also, why did this suddenly sound less like a job rejection and more like I had been awaiting the outcome of a legal proceeding?

This was a simple administrative job at a school.

I kept reading.

“Please be assured that your application for employment was given every possible consideration.”

Every.

Possible.

Consideration.

Not careful consideration. Not serious consideration.

Every possible consideration.

Apparently, no stone had been left unturned. Every avenue had been explored. All evidence had been entered into the record.

And still, regrettably, the decision had not been made in my favor.

Then I looked at the signature.

Esq.

The person who wrote the letter was a lawyer.

Of course she was.

Suddenly, the formal ruling made sense. The decision had been rendered. It was not in my favor. And, apparently, every possible consideration had been exhausted before reaching this conclusion.

I hadn’t been rejected from a job.

I’d lost my case.

This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.

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The Book Review Backlog (2): 2025

Here’s the second batch of books I read in the first half of 2025, during the stretch when I wasn't yet posting on the blog but still reading constantly. Most of these reviews lived on Goodreads first, so I’m bringing them over here, cleaned up and collected in one place. This round includes thrillers, medical fiction, and an admittedly aggressive amount of Freida McFadden.

Do You Remember? by Freida McFadden
Thriller ◦ 2024 ◦ ★★★★☆

This was another great Freida book about a woman with severe memory loss. She wakes up each day to a man who claims to be her husband, though she doesn’t remember him, and has essentially become a prisoner in her own home. Freida's books tend to be a little formulaic, but I can't deny that they suck me right in. This book moved at a fast pace and was extremely intriguing. The twist was a little odd and left me with a few questions, but all in all, I really enjoyed this book.

The Devil Wears Scrubs by Freida McFadden
Medical Fiction ◦ 2011 ◦ ★★★☆☆

I'm a big Freida fan, and this was the first of her non-thriller books that I've read, following a young medical intern as she navigates hospital life, impossible workloads, and difficult personalities. All in all, I enjoyed it. It was humorous and gave a glimpse into the world of medical interns and doctors, which I always find interesting. However, I will say that she seems to focus a bit TOO much on being funny and witty, and it detracted from the story somewhat. Every other sentence seemed sarcastic or comical, to the point where it hampered the plot a bit. All in all though, I did like it and definitely plan on reading the sequel soon.

The Housemaid’s Wedding by Freida McFadden
Thriller ◦ 2024 ◦ ★★★☆☆

A fast and fun short story addition to The Housemaid series. I'm not a big fan of short stories, but I like how this added a little background to the overall storyline of the series. It was an enjoyable read.

Want to Know a Secret? by Freida McFadden
Thriller ◦ 2021 ◦ ★★★★☆

Another great Freida thriller about a woman’s carefully curated suburban life that begins to unravel as buried secrets come to light. This one started a little on the slower side, but definitely picked up pace and became hard to put down. I didn't love the very last twist and epilogue, but all in all, I found the story to be fun and intriguing.

The Surrogate Mother by Freida McFadden
Thriller ◦ 2020 ◦ ★★★★☆

One of my top Freida books! This one is about a couple who have been dealing with infertility for years. After a recent failed adoption, the woman's coworker offers to be a surrogate for them. Despite initial apprehension, they decide to go for it. And while the storyline may seem obvious and predictable, it's a Freida book, so of course you have to expect the unexpected. The story and the characters become pretty much unhinged and go off in some crazy directions. A fun and fast read!

The Ex by Freida McFadden
Thriller ◦ 2019 ◦ ★★★☆☆

Freida is one of my favorites, and this one had all the usual twists, turns, and excitement. It follows a woman who thinks she has found the perfect man... until his ex-girlfriend reappears and refuses to stay in the past. It was a fast read and kept me pretty well engaged. However, while I enjoyed it, it was not one of my favorites. The twist itself was shocking, but ultimately confusing. I had to kind of think back to previous chapters to try and piece things together, and it was challenging. All in all, another good Freida book that was fun to read, but not one of her best.

Baby City by Freida McFadden & Kelley Stoddard
Medical Fiction ◦ 2015 ◦ ★★★☆☆

This was an overall light and fun book about an OB/GYN resident working in labor and delivery at a hospital. I really enjoy medical fiction and kind of getting that peek behind the curtain. This book does a good job of doing that while also being humorous and easy to read. A couple of minor issues: the book was a bit long and meandering with not too much plot or action, and had too many characters to keep track of, particularly all the patients. There were also so many typos that it became a bit distracting. Overall though, I enjoyed my time with this book and am glad I read it.

Tell Me What You Did by Carter Wilson
Thriller ◦ 2024 ◦ ★★★★☆

Really gripping thriller about a true crime podcast host facing down the man who claims to be her mother's murderer from many years ago. Though the book was a bit lengthy, short chapters and an engaging mystery kept it moving at a fast pace. I thoroughly enjoyed this one and look forward to reading more of this author's books soon.

Brain Damage by Freida McFadden
Medical Mystery ◦ 2016 ◦ ★★★☆☆

This is not your typical Freida thriller. Instead, it's a story about a woman recovering from a gunshot to the head and her ensuing brain injury, memory loss, and slow recovery in the hospital. Though it's not a thriller, it does have an intriguing mystery aspect, as Charly must figure out who shot her and why, but her memory of that evening is very fuzzy. I enjoyed this book overall, and found it pretty fascinating. I enjoyed seeing Charly's progression and struggles along with all the other patients on the unit. Not my favorite Freida novel, but definitely an engaging and interesting read, nevertheless.

That wraps up another chunk of my 2025 reading backlog. Apparently I spent part of the year bouncing between thrillers, hospital drama, and Freida McFadden’s entire catalog. More catch-up reviews still to come.

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One More Life (New Chapters, Ch. 3)

New Chapters ◦ Chapter Three: The Return ◦ Entry 4

This essay is part of my New Chapters series — a collection of personal essays organized into themed chapters that trace different seasons of rebuilding and becoming.

← Previous: On My Own Two Feet

On home, hope, and beginning again. 🌿

For two days in July, I was consumed by paperwork.

Pay stubs. Bank statements. Tax documents. Forms. Anything they might possibly need.

I was applying for a USDA home loan, and once I decided to do it, I was determined. I gathered everything, sent it all in, and then started obsessively checking my email.

I didn’t tell anyone I was applying.

Not because I didn’t have people who would support me. I did. But I didn't know how they'd feel. I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know if I’d qualify, or whether some forgotten piece of my financial life would come back with a giant red circle around it to haunt me.

So for a little while, it was just mine.

I kept expecting an email asking for something I’d missed. Another document. Another form. Some financial loose end I hadn’t thought of.

Instead, they told me I’d done a great job submitting everything they needed.

A couple of days later, the approval landed in my inbox.

I stared at it.

I smiled. I read it again. I felt a little shocked.

And then I teared up.

I’d done it.

After years of my life looking nothing like I’d once imagined it would, I had qualified to buy a house on my own.

And then, in the same hour, I cried for another reason.

I’d done this huge thing quietly, and suddenly I wished I’d had someone beside me who had been waiting for the answer too. Someone to text immediately and say, I did it.

It was a strange thing, being so proud of myself and a little lonely at the same time.

But the loneliness didn’t erase the pride.

Eventually, I told my family.

And once the news was out, the approval started to feel less like a PDF in my inbox and more like the beginning of something.

I started imagining our life inside a house of our own.

I pictured granite counters in a kitchen where the boys would leave crumbs everywhere five minutes after I cleaned them. A porch where I could sit with a book. A yard big enough for them to roam, argue, invent things, and disappear just far enough that I’d eventually have to yell their names from the back door.

I imagined them racing to claim bedrooms and inevitably arguing over who got the better one.

I imagined us in a smaller town, maybe with a little bit of land. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere with room around us.

A place to breathe after three years that had contained very little breathing room.

Of course, the dreaming quickly collided with the practical part.

I've started obsessively refreshing Zillow. I’m already on my second realtor, and we text almost daily, sending listings back and forth and sharing thoughts about houses I might love, houses I definitely don’t, and houses that look promising until one inconvenient detail ruins everything.

I’ve also learned not to look at the pretty photos first.

I check the taxes.

Always the taxes.

Because there is no point falling in love with the granite countertops, the porch, or the giant backyard if the tax bill makes the house impossible.

Still, I keep looking.

And every once in a while, I let myself picture it again.

The boys in the yard. Their things scattered through the bedrooms. Groceries in our refrigerator. Books on my shelves. Shoes piled by the door. Ordinary Tuesday nights happening inside a place that belongs to us.

I still don’t know which house will be ours. I don’t know how many listings I’ll refresh, how many tax bills will eliminate houses before I ever step inside them, or how many front doors I’ll walk through before one finally becomes ours.

There is still plenty left to figure out.

There have been houses I loved that I couldn’t afford. Houses that looked perfect online but disappointed in person. Houses that have disappeared before I ever got the chance to see them. And there will be more. Always more.

But for the first time, the uncertainty doesn’t feel like a dead end.

It feels like possibility.

Somewhere out there is a home for us.

I haven’t found it yet, but now I know I’m allowed to look for it. I know I can picture a different life without immediately talking myself out of it.

After so much of the last few years being about surviving what was in front of me, it feels strange and wonderful to finally be looking ahead.

Realizing that this life I'd been imagining might actually be possible gave me something I hadn't felt in a long time: 

hope that I could build one more life from scratch.

Next: Coming Soon →

  

Visit the New Chapters landing page to explore each chapter and read the story in order.

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The Fastest Fact Alive (One Minute Memoir)

A Memoir of Kid Logic, Cheetah Speed, and YouTube Lies

Setting: August 2025 — Fact-checking the dinner table

“Baby cheetahs can run 27 miles per hour,” Holden announced between bites of dinner, as if he’d just returned from the savannah himself. “Kid cheetahs run about 100. Adult cheetahs, 305. And old adults, 313.”

He rattled off the numbers with absolute authority, fork in one hand, wild facts in the other. We nodded along, letting him build his animal kingdom of speed, mile by impossible mile.

About fifteen minutes later, I circled back. “Hey Holden—what were those cheetah speeds again?”

This time the confidence cracked. He hesitated, stumbled, then shrugged. “I don’t remember. Just look it up.”

So I did. Actual cheetahs top out around 50 to 80 mph.

“Where’d you hear yours?” I asked.

“YouTube,” he said, dead serious. Then he leaned back in his chair like a man who had solved the world already: “YouTube always lies.”

This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.

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