I had always thought I couldn’t afford a single-family home — especially not in Boston’s high-cost housing market, where I, a middle-class, never-married woman, have spent much of my adult life. And I didn’t want to buy a condo, considering it just a reboot of apartment living — only without the freedom to leave or complain about the neighbors.
I had also never really relished the prospect of buying a place alone.
But then, faced with yet another exorbitant rent increase, I began rethinking all of this. After the briefest look at real estate listings, I was amazed to discover that if I bought a house in an outer suburb, my mortgage might even be less than my rent — and I’d have more than twice the space. Plus a yard. And tax breaks. I could start acquiring equity. I could plant a garden. Oh, my! Suddenly owning seemed appealing. Or was I just getting old?
Unfortunately, I had no family to advise me on this, the biggest financial decision I would probably ever make, so I turned to friends and colleagues.
“The house has to have replacement windows.’’ “Only consider a forced-hot water heating system.’’ “If there’s a sump pump in the basement, that means the place is prone to flooding, so avoid it like the plague.’’ “Get your own attorney to represent you at closing.’’ “Don’t hire the inspectors the realtor recommends; they will mislead you about the condition of the house.’’ “Never use a mortgage broker; you’ll never know the status of your loan application.’’ “Emphasize the house’s negatives so you can low-ball the offer.’’ Etc.
As my realtor and I drove around looking at houses, I repeated most of this advice. Finally, she turned to me and said: “I have never had a client receive so much advice as you. I think it’s because you’re a single woman and people just assume you don’t know what you’re doing. I think that’s actually rather insulting, don’t you?’’
She said it with humor, and I understood her point, but I didn’t quite agree. I think people gave me this advice because I essentially asked for it, not only because I genuinely needed to learn from the experiences and impressions of others, but also because I wanted to feel less alone during this big event of my life.
She ended up showing me 10 properties. When I first saw my house on a map, sitting adjacent to a national wildlife refuge, I immediately felt excited. But this Cape was also fine in its own right: three bedrooms, 1½ baths, a working fireplace in a big, bright living room, formal dining room, full basement. By my second visit, I was in love. “I think I’ve found my house,’’ I pronounced, tears dribbling down. Then, on a subsequent visit, I experienced the weird sensation of wondering what the current owner was doing in “my’’ house.
At closing, as I marked page after page with my lone signature, I did wish I could be sharing this deal, this moment with a partner. But, at age 59, here I was doing it by myself, with my credit, my earned money, my judgment. After my realtor snapped a photo of me holding the deed, I took myself out to a celebratory lunch and raised a glass.
Mary Kay Landon is a writer who still loves her Maynard home. Send comments to MaryKayLandon@-gmail.com and a 550-word essay on your first home to Address@globe.com. Please note: We do not respond to submissions we won’t pursue.
