Walking past the freshly cut and stunningly green lawn, I made my way to the front door. Fumbling with the padlock on the handle, I punched in the keycode, turned the knob, and stepped into the foyer. It was just how I remembered it: Located in beautiful Los Angeles, California, it was decorated with lots of different scenic photos on the walls leading to the kitchen, the one wooden table that had been there forever still stood strong, and the faint smell of vanilla was still there. I looked up at the high, vaulted ceilings and closed the door behind me with a quiet squeak echoing on the walls and original hardwood floors.
As I began to slowly pad through the hall leading to the kitchen, I began to remember what living here was like. I looked in the kitchen and recalled my mom and I baking my cake for my 17th birthday. In the living room, I could envision my dad and I watching A Charlie Brown Christmas, while my mom stood cooking in the kitchen. I made a round through the first floor, then reluctantly walked up the stairs, my legs feeling heavy.
At the top of the stairs, I stopped. It was daytime, and I hadn’t turned any lights on, which meant no usual hum of the fluorescents on the landing that I had originally hated. The silence was deafening. A firm knock on the front door jolted me from my thoughts. The buyer, I remembered. I turned around, stepped to the first stair, and slowly began my descent back to the first floor.
I walked to the front door and grabbed the knob. I paused for a moment, a wave of nerves coming over me. I sighed, pasted a smile on my face, and opened the door.
“Hi!” I said, sounding a little bit more cheery than I was going for.
“Hello!” The stranger looking at me looked genuinely excited, unlike myself.
I welcomed her and told her to step inside. She began to walk off the rug by the front door, but I stopped her.
“Um...  Would you mind taking your shoes off, please? Original hardwood.” I motioned toward the light wood floors.
“Oh, yes!” She told me slipping off her shoes. “I’m Sarah Montgomery.” She held out her hand, and I shook it.
She looked down, seemingly disappointed, as she began to travel lightly down the hallway.
“Yes,” she nodded, eyeing the floors. “Those will have to go.”
I cleared my throat quietly, shocked, and stifled a nervous laugh.
“Mhm. What do you mean?” I asked.
“The floors. I don’t exactly like them very much. I’m more into dark wood,” she told me, stopping halfway down the hallway to face me.
I stood there, soaking in the words she had just spoken to me. I had no idea what to say. This house was absolutely amazing. People vied for this house before my mother bought it back in the late 90’s. It was owned by some hollywood star I couldn’t remember the name of, even after my mom had told me a dozen times, and was one of the only original mansions left in this part of Los Angeles.
“But they’re original to the house. From the ‘30’s,” I pointed out, exasperated, following her as she began walking again.
“Ooh, and these pictures. Distracting,” Sarah said thoughtfully, but rudely ignoring my attempted persuasion.
We continued on to the kitchen, where I held my breath at the critique of the countertops or tile that I was sure was to come.
“The countertops?”
“Original granite.”
“I like it…” Sarah declared, her hand moving across the counters and sweeping her into the living room. She glanced in, commented a “hmm”, and padded up the stairs, me following closely behind.
In the master bedroom, she wanted to add crown molding to the ceiling. In the others, she wanted to change the lighting. And in the bathroom, she wanted to change all the fixtures.
We walked back down the stairs after about an hour of nonstop talking of changes to be made and walking from room to room to check again, as if something would have changed. At the front door, I thanked her for coming and closed the door behind her when she left. I turned around and breathed out heavily. I couldn’t let all these changes happen; this was my childhood house and I was fairly sure that the rest of my family wouldn’t appreciate their home of 20-something years be ripped to shreds and put into new, tip-top shape. That was the beauty of the house: everything was the same it had been 80 years ago when it was built.
I had just walked back into the living room and sat on the couch when the doorbell rang again. I stood up, shaking my head, and shuffled to the door. I looked through the peephole in the door and found myself looking at yet another person I didn’t recognize. I opened the door cautiously and my eyes met a young mans.
“Um. Hi, can I help you?” I asked, trying my best to sound helpful.
“Uh yes, I’m here to look at the house. I know I didn’t call but…” He trailed off.
“Oh no! Please come in. You're welcome to look around,” I told him, praying this would go better than the last tour with Sarah.
He stepped inside with wide eyes and immediately slipped off his shoes. Holding out his hand, he informed me, “Tanner Donovan.”
Thank you, I thought to myself, Someone with manners.
“To our left is the dining room and to our right is the living room.”
Tanner looked up admirably. “Nice vaulted ceilings.” He looked toward the living room and commented on the nice taste in design and furniture.
“Everything is original to the house built in the ‘30’s.”
He looked at me, amazed. “Really?”
I nodded. Continuing to walk through to the kitchen, Tanner following close behind me.
“I love these countertops. What are they?” He asked.
“Granite,” I responded, silently thanking him for liking them even though he didn’t know what had happened not an hour before.
“Wonderful,” he stated. “I’m an architect, you know. I appreciate old, kept-up places like this.
“Well, we did our best to maintain everything that was already here when we bought it,” I said, hope stringing my voice.
“I can tell,” he responded thoughtfully.
I motioned for him to follow me upstairs. He seemed like he knew what he was looking for, so I let Tanner meander around by himself to check out the second floor.
He met me back by the top of the stairs and expressed his likeness for the rest of the house.
“I love the fixtures and the lighting up here is absolutely exquisite. The hardwood throughout is beautiful. I think I’ll make an offer.”
It was then I was shocked at two things. The fact that he loved everything Sarah had hated or that he was already willing to make an offer.
“I’ll be in contact with you about the house in the next few days. Then, we’ll make an offer. Just let me have a couple minutes to talk with my wife; I just know she’ll love it,” Tanner told me, excitement in his eyes.
I showed him out the door and began to dial my mom’s number on my cell. After four rings, she picked up.
“Hello darling!”
“Mom. About the house. Can I come see you on Wednesday to talk about it? A couple people came to see it today.” I said this in one breath and breathed in a huge breath of air at the end to recover.
“Sure! I’ll be here.”
I told her “great” and hung up quickly. I started to relive the past few hours. Sarah was an absolute control freak, I could already tell. She wanted to change practically every part of the house, while Tanner had more realistic thoughts of keeping the house as it always was.
On Wednesday, I found myself parked in an underground garage and walking in to the antiseptic-smelling hospital lobby. At the front desk, I stated my mother’s name, Hilary Mathis, for the receptionist, who told me to head up to the room. I took the elevator and soon tiptoed into my mothers room, where she lay on the propped up bed.
“Hey,” I said quietly.
“Hi!” She responded. “So about this house debacle…” She was always right to the point. I plopped down in the chair next to her bed.
“Well, I know the house is technically mine because you said it was mine once you were permanently here and dad was…” I trailed off and she nodded. “But I still want your opinion.”
I then shot into the whole story of what had happened earlier that week with Sarah and Tanner, spewing it all out in the span of about five minutes. When I was done, my mother being my mother, didn’t have an opinion. She’s one of those people who tells you to do whatever feels right.
I left later that Wednesday feeling slightly disappointed because I didn’t get a straight answer, but also slightly uplifted because I knew my mother would support whatever decision I made.
On Thursday night, Sarah called, wanting to make an offer. On the phone, she offered $950,000 for the home I spent my childhood in. I wondered if my childhood memories and the house itself were worth that much, while almost dropping the phone in shock in the process. I was crazy excited until Tanner called the next morning.
“720,” he said firmly as soon as I picked up.
I stammered. “What?”
“For the house.”
“Well,” I said, dropping the work I was doing on a calendar for work. “There’s actually another offer on the table...” I trailed off.
“Oh.” His voice dropped and I could hear his confident mood deflating.
“Let me call you back when I’ve thought it all through.”
The call ended a few seconds later, and I let out a sigh.
I spent the rest of the night sitting on the couch with the muted television in front of me. I thought about what the pros and cons of each buyer were. Great offer, renovating buyer versus lower offer, preferred buyer. I loved this house, but my family needed the money for my mom in the hospital, which is what Sarah could offer. Although, I felt like the least I could do to make myself feel better about selling it would be the buyer loving the house the way it is, which is exactly who Tanner was. I fell asleep on the couch that Friday night.
I made the call the next morning.
“Hi,” I said quietly into the phone, “I’m calling in regards to my house?”
“Oh wonderful!” Tanner responded happily.
“So, my family and I have decided to accept your offer.”
“Oh my gosh.” The receiver got quieter, as though he was holding it against his shoulder. “Honey! We got the house!” There was a gasp in the background, followed by happy laughter.
I could tell by how excited Tanner and his wife were that I had made the right decision.
“Thank you so much!” He cried out into the phone.
“Thank you!” I told him, actually happy for once throughout this whole process.
And I’d gotten exactly what I had hoped for: A buyer who was willing to keep the house as it was and had been for almost a century, someone who would keep my memories of the house there without removing them, and someone who would love it for many years, just as my family and I had for so many years before.