A Little Bowl of Grapefruit

One year of this mess. There’s always been a little nagging fear in the back of my mind, itching to come forward when I’ve been stressed about who knows what.

Your life is so comfortable. So many others have gone through so much worse. What would happen if the next world war broke out? What if there were another plague? You’re stressed as it is, so what would you do then?

You never really think it will happen, yet here we are. One year into a pandemic that’s shut down economies, jobs, and cities around the world. Overflowing hospitals. Millions of deaths. Masks that make it hard to breathe. Lack of socialization for my son at a critical stage in his toddler years.

Others have had it worse, but it’s not been easy. I started the pandemic pregnant with my second. I carried the stress of pregnancy, isolation, and the risk of a deadly virus with an autoimmune disease and a growing baby to think about.

We avoided as many risks as we could. For the most part, my sister was the only one we saw in person. Then the fear that hit when I’d seen my sister the day before she got sick. She tested positive. The relief that came when we didn’t get sick. The wearing stress of wanting to be with those you love but not wanting to risk yourself or them.

Some good things have come out of the crazy. We’re looking for a home to settle down with our little family. We’ve been dreaming for years. Stimulus checks buffered our accounts, making it easier for us to get to this point. Interest rates are at record lows all over the country. A promotion at my husband’s job, and a steady flow of freelance work while I’m home with the kids. All the little details that lead us to this point.

After years in college and more years supporting my husband through his master’s, we’re finally ready. So why does it have to be like this? 5 aggressive offers placed, but what good are the offers when 30 other people offer the same or more. $5,000 cash above appraisal. $10,000 cash above appraisal. $15,000 cash above appraisal. $18,000 cash above appraisal.

Someone out there always has more. Maybe they don’t have student loans to pay? Maybe they don’t have kids to think about? I don’t know where the money comes from, but we can’t compete. And the longer this goes on, the higher the prices get. Every time houses close at higher and higher prices, the window for us closes.

And here a townhouse we could afford, but just at the asking price. The HOA is higher than we’d like, and the property taxes on others have been lower. Is it even worth putting an offer in? It just appraised for the asking price under contract, but the financing fell through. We can afford the appraisal value, but I know there will be better offers. $20,000 cash above appraisal seems to be the minimum right now.

We could go above and take the money out of the downpayment . . . But I don’t dare. The payments would be too high.

I look down at my little black notebook where I keep all the notes about houses we’ve seen. It checks all the boxes. It cuts down on the commute, has enough space for the kids, and provides access to parks.

“Put your best foot forward,” our realtor had told us.

I guess we’ll just have to see. I call my realtor and tell her we want to go for it. Put an offer in at the asking price, knowing it probably won’t be accepted. The chances are next to 0, but you never know.

I sit down at my computer to write a letter to the seller. Our realtor told us it might make a difference. It’s pretty much our only shot with an offer like this, but it feels a bit pointless, pedantic even.

I struggle with what to write. I write a short description about our family. I add a photo of us smiling. Now what? I think about the details of the townhouse. The master bedroom big enough for a crib. The small bonus room to put toys in. The island in the kitchen with room for barstools.

Then an image hits me with a flood of emotions. My grandpa sitting on a barstool at the island in their kitchen, hunched over eating a little bowl of grapefruit. His silver hair glistens in the light. At the seat to his right, a bowl of cereal sits there waiting.

My grandpa, the kind of man who would do anything for his kids and his grandkids. The kind of man who’d set out a bowl of cereal every day waiting for his wife while he ate his bowl of grapefruit. The kind of weathered, comfortable daily rituals that only come with 60 years together. Now gone, passed on five years ago.

Tears burn in my eyes, and I realize I haven’t thought, I mean really thought, about those memories for years.

I write about the barstool, my grandpa, his bowl of grapefruit, and the bowl of cereal. Then I send it off to my realtor.

The house sits at the back of the mind, all the while knowing it likely won’t happen. I browse the listings daily, looking for something that has enough space for our little family and fits within our range. The options are depressingly slim.

This one could work, but we’d have to add 20 minutes to the commute there and back. That’d cut out the little time our toddler has with his dad, who already has a commute that’s 90 minutes each way. That one could work, but we’d outgrow the space as soon as the new baby could walk. One by one, I cross houses off the list in my little black book.

The stress hovers on the edge of my mind throughout the day. I know we can continue renting. I know it will be okay, but I can’t help worrying.

Two days after submitting the offer, my realtor calls.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she says. “They accepted your offer.”

My heart stops as she tells me all about the man selling the house. He’s 75 years old. His house went under contract, and then he and his new wife left on their honeymoon. Then it went back on the market during their honeymoon. They read the letter about my grandpa, and it spoke to them. They wanted to sell us the house.

Tears stream down my face. My grandpa. The man that’d do anything for his kids and his grandkids. The man whose memory saved us $20,000.