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“We pay for what matters to us.” His voice is as careless as his shrug had been.
I peer through the darkness toward the cottage once more.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “We do.”
“Guess who we’re bidding against?” I demand when I get back home. I answer before they can guess. “The next door neighbor.”
“That cranky-pants guy you told us about?” Bill asks.
I nod. “Doesn’t love the idea of a kid living next door. Or me.”
“Wow. That’s a real special guy. You sure you want to live next to him?” Lisa asks. “Just live here forever.”
I smile at her. “We’ll be here all the time anyway. But yes, I think we need our own space. Let’s counter with asking price and no contingencies.”
Her face says she doesn’t like it.
“I can afford it,” I say.
“But you already go without so much . . . ”
“Nothing I need,” I say. “And I’ve got some ideas for work-from-home part-time jobs now that my degree is done.” They were only vague ideas and all things I could do between 8:00 PM and midnight when Evie was asleep. Phone surveys. Remote helpline for alarm companies. Nothing was firm yet, but whether I get this house or not, I’ll still be trying to figure out how to work a second job so I can save for a reliable used car.
Lisa sighs. “Okay. I’ll put in the offer. I can’t decide if I want the seller to accept it or not, but either way, we’ll be in a waiting game.”
Evie pops out of the kitchen. “Hi, Mama. We made chicken and lemon.”
“Sounds delicious,” I say. “Is your homework done?”
“Almost. I’ll finish it because the chicken has to cook more.” She sits at the dining table where her open spelling book waits for her. It’s such a small thing, but it’s something we don’t have room for upstairs, where she’d have to work on her bed or the couch with her books and paper in her lap.
I slide an arm around Lisa’s waist. She’s a couple inches taller than me, and I rest my head on her shoulder. “Want this for me, Lisa. Because I want it so much for us.”
She hugs me back. “I’ll want it for you. And I promise to be as nervous as you are until we hear back on your offer, but there’s something we can try that might make a difference.”
I straighten. “What is it?”
“Sometimes it can sway a seller if you write a heartfelt letter explaining why you want the place.”
I hesitate. I hate telling other people my story because I don’t like being the sum of my tragedies. But if it means getting the house . . .
“You think it will work?”
Lisa nods. “I think it’s your only play if Cranky Pants counteroffers again.”
“Then it looks like I have some homework to do too.” I sit across from Evie and outline the broad strokes of my story until it’s time to help set the table. After a dinner of roasted chicken, Bill and Evie help with dishes while Lisa waves me away to work on the letter.
I go up to work on my laptop, opening it and taking a deep breath. Then another. And then I begin to type, telling these sellers my story, a story I hope will offset whatever Mr. Brown can offer.
To whom it may concern,
My name is Paige Redmond, and I grew up just two towns away from Creekville. I’m twenty-six years old, and we’ve lived in this area for eight years, ever since I found out I was about to become a single mother at eighteen.
My parents had recently died in a car accident, and I’d left home after graduation, grieving and lost. But when I found out my daughter Evie was on her way, I remembered that I still had one piece of home: my big brother. So back I came, and I left a year-long trail of poor judgment and bad decisions behind me.
I haven’t looked back. Moving here was the best thing I’ve ever done. For myself, yes. But most importantly for Evie.
I tell them about putting myself through college over the last two years with grants and scholarships, taking classes in Roanoke at night and online courses while Evie slept or on my lunch breaks, and cramming on my days off from the store. I talk about only having lived in cramped apartments, and about how much a home will mean to us.
