I never quite understood the obsession with homeownership. For me, life was a series of comfortable, temporary stops. Renting meant freedom, no leaky roofs, no unexpected assessments, just the simple joy of paying my dues and moving on if the mood struck. I’d lived in charming flats and cozy bungalows across three different states, each place a chapter, never the whole book. It suited my slightly nomadic, low-stress approach to life perfectly.
My daughter, Clara, on the other hand, was always drawn to permanence. Even as a child, she’d build her Lego creations with an almost stubborn commitment, her tiny structures meant to last. When she graduated college and started her career, her biggest goal wasn’t a fancy title or a high salary, it was putting down roots. I admired her drive, even if I couldn’t share the specific dream.
