Chapter 3 - Florence’s House Was Supposed to Be a Twelve-Month Stop
Three years into marriage, Christopher and I sold our condo.
Not because we were desperate.
Because the building needed major work and special assessments were coming.
We made a modest gain.
After paying the mortgage and closing costs, our share of proceeds was roughly:
$74,000.
We wanted to buy:
a detached house.
Then interest rates climbed.
Inventory was terrible.
Christopher suggested:
“Move in with Mom for a year.”
I laughed.
He didn’t.
“She has two empty bedrooms.”
“No.”
“We could save thirty grand.”
“No.”
“She’s lonely.”
Still no.
Then Florence called.
“I heard I’m the problem.”
I sighed.
“Christopher.”
She laughed.
“Come for dinner.”
Dinner became:
presentation.
Florence offered:
no rent.
We would pay:
utilities,
groceries,
some household expenses.
Christopher would finish a bathroom renovation.
We could save aggressively.
Twelve months.
I asked:
“Are you sure?”
Florence answered:
“This house will be Christopher’s eventually anyway.”
That sentence should have worried me.
Instead it made the arrangement sound:
familial.
So we moved in.
At first, it worked.
I cooked twice a week.
Florence cooked three nights.
Christopher handled:
repairs,
yard,
maintenance.
I paid:
utilities,
internet,
most groceries.
We transferred:
$700 monthly
into Florence’s account for general house expenses.
Meanwhile we deposited roughly:
$3,000 to $4,000 monthly
into what we called:
House Fund.
A joint high-yield savings account.
The balance grew.
$22,000.
$41,000.
$63,000.
Then Christopher’s income dropped again.
Construction market slowed.
One client did not pay.
He started contributing:
less.
I was promoted.
My salary increased substantially.
Suddenly most of the House Fund came from:
me.
I noticed.
Told myself:
marriage.
Then Florence’s furnace failed.
Replacement:
$11,800.
She did not have enough cash without drawing from retirement.
Christopher said:
“We live here too.”
Fair.
We split:
half from our household account,
half Florence.
Then roof repair:
$7,400.
Then property taxes jumped.
Then insurance.
Our “free housing” became:
less free.
Still cheaper than renting.
Still reasonable enough.
Then twelve months became:
eighteen.
Then twenty-four.
Every time I asked about moving:
rates are terrible.
Inventory is bad.
Mom needs help.
Why waste money?
Each argument sounded:
logical.
Collectively they created:
stagnation.
By the third year, I realized we were no longer temporarily living with Florence.
We were financing a household she still treated as exclusively:
May you like
hers.
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