For seven years, my wife Jane refused to buy a house, insisting we keep renting. I thought it was about money or timing—until she finally told me the truth.
We had everything we needed to buy, but she always shut the idea down. When I found the perfect house, she reacted with fear, not excitement. That’s when I knew something deeper was wrong.
One night, she finally opened up: her childhood home had felt like a trap. Her mother used it to control her—guilt trips, restrictions, and no real freedom. To Jane, owning a home didn’t mean security; it meant confinement.
So, we waited. She started therapy. We talked, slowly redefining what “home” could be. One day, she showed me a listing herself. Nervously, she asked, “What if we just go see it?”
A year later, we bought a modest house filled with light and peace. Jane painted every room herself—no permission needed. In one sunny corner, she placed a plant and named it “Freedom.”
Now, when she says, “I can’t believe I own this,” it’s not disbelief—it’s healing. Home, for her, finally means choice. And peace.