THE HOMECOMING

For one family, it was time to start living in their house, not just existing there.

- MEGAN ISENNOCK

FOUR HALLOWEENS AGO, my husband and I stood in front of our dream home in our bathrobes. Our second child had been born the month before, and after spending an—honestly, worrisome—the amount of time crafting our son’s fire-truck costume out of a diaper box, I had no energy left for the rest of us. I tossed my husband his robe, and stuck name tags reading “TIRED” on our terry cloth lapels, and “THE REASON” on the Baby Bjorn strapped to my chest.

We set out, our plucky fire truck leading his enervated family door to door in our Mt. Vernon neighborhood until we reached the door behind which lay the house we’d fantasized about for nearly a decade. We knew someone had recently bought it after it spent a few years as a corporate rental, but we had only gleaned his first name from the neighbors. I figured if we couldn’t live there, we’d find a way to spend time in the house as guests. I accepted a glass of spiked cider from friends next door and calmly waited until I heard a handsome stranger introduce himself as “Matt.”

And then, in the friendliest way possible, I pounced. “Hi, I’m Megan! You bought my house.” He was, of course, confused and asked if I used to live there. Fortified by the cider, six weeks of sleepless nights, and 10 years of highly specific real estate stalking I said, “No, but I think I will one day.”