How I Dealt With My Parents Selling My Childhood Home
My parents built their house in June of 1987. I was born that August. We lived there together for the next twenty-six years. I moved out nine years ago when I married, but only four blocks away in the same small town that my father, my husband, and I grew up in. I still visited often, especially when I had my own kids. The house is on a dead-end street, with few neighbors, a lot of space, and deep woods surrounding. It’s a little piece of paradise amid a quaint town you could pass in a blink. It’s a legacy, too, built on property my Opa bought when they immigrated from Germany after World War II. And now it’s been confined to our memories. I get why my parents wanted to sell. It’s a pretty big house and they are empty-nesters. The house and property were a lot to take care of. Not to mention all the stuff that space had allowed them to accumulate. They were tired of the grind, of taking caring of things they didn’t need, of falling into old habits. They want to travel, to simplif...