ANDRE BEGIN

It was a typical leisurely Sunday morning back in the late 1990’s. I was reading the newspaper, slowly sipping my coffee, relaxing and recharging for another work week.

This was a time when I was in the early stages of considering my first home purchase, and studying the newspaper’s “Homes” section, trying to refine my list of needs and wants. That way, the day I decided to jump into the market and speak to a real estate agent, I already had an idea of what I was looking for.

On this particular Sunday, I couldn’t help but notice an “Open House” announcement for a very familiar address… the one at my childhood home.

Despite my lack of experience in real estate, I knew well enough the principles of an open house.

At the time, I had heard in the news that it was a slow market. There was even a chance that the real estate agent might have been hoping for someone… anyone… to come through the doors.

So I decided why not.

I hopped in the shower, then changed into an outfit that looked casual, but not too casual, that leaned toward projecting “young professional in search of his starter home”. I could feel butterflies in my stomach as I left my apartment.

As I drove up the driveway, the memories started flooding back. The place I stood for the school bus on cold mornings, the spot where I might have accidentally broken our lawn mower, the driveway which I had shoveled many times over our Canadian winters.

A quick calculation reminded me that that I lived in this dwelling for almost 13 years, yet it still felt like just a blip on the radar of my young life.

The real estate agent greeted me at the door and handed me a leaflet with all of the information about the house.

The real estate agent then asked what I was looking for. It was no lie to say that I was just dipping my toe in the market, getting a feel for what was out there and what was within my budget.

She asked why I was interested in this neighbourhood. I answered that I grew up close-by… Not far from the truth.

While on the one hand I feared wasting the real estate agent’s time, on the other hand I really didn’t know if there was a chance I might want to buy back into the house I grew up in. Maybe nostalgia would pull at the heartstrings strongly enough that I might be moved to make such an ambitious purchase.

The fun part was having somebody else tell me about the features of a house that I already knew inside and out, nodding in acknowledgement, holding back my urge to say, “I know” from time to time.

As we toured the house, the strangest sensation, which I’ve heard people say before, was how small everything felt.

It was indeed my parents’ starter home, a home built for two adults and one child. It didn’t need to be more spacious than that.

Plus, I always saw the house through the eyes of someone younger and shorter. But through the eyes of a slightly taller adult, it felt cozier (euphemistically, smaller) than I remembered.

Even my bedroom felt surprisingly claustrophobic, yet I had spent and survived most every night there from age 2 to 14.

As the tour continued, she took me downstairs to the semi-finished basement. In my dad’s spare time, he was working on turning it into a finished basement but unfortunately my parents split up before the job could be completed.

It was when we passed by the bar that my dad built, common in houses from that era, that the real estate agent who was already on her way to the laundry room turned back and said, “I don’t think it’s a wet bar” to which my reflexes kicked in with a quick “Yes it is!”

Busted!

I immediately knew the error I had committed in blurting out information that wasn’t actually on the pamphlet. I knew it was a wet bar from having used the sink and running water whenever our gatherings gravitated towards the basement.

I responded with “I just noticed the tap as we were passing by.”

To this day, I still wonder if the real estate agent suspected anything.

As we continued touring the house I noticed some minor things had changed. In essence, it still was the home I grew up in and for which I would always hold fondness and gratitude.

When the real estate agent asked me what I thought, I responded that I thought it felt very cozy, very homey and would make a good starter home for a small family but I didn’t think it would be me.

First, I knew that this small bungalow was just out of my price range. I’d have to eat a lot of budget-priced macaroni and cheese to make this work (but what a full circle moment, given how many boxes of that stuff I ate here because I loved it!)

Second, even though I hadn’t seen enough homes to fully nail down my own needs and wants list, intuitively I knew that this was the house that ticked those boxes for Mom and Dad… but not for me.

Third, despite the affection I would have for this house that still lasts to this day, I couldn’t say that there was a compelling need to start anew in the house I grew up in.

Some people do and that’s fine for them. I wanted something to call my own and in which I could make my own memories.

Last, I wondered if I could truly assert myself and find my place in the adult world, living in the house that I saw through the eyes of a child.

Could that possibly hold me back later?

After visiting the old house, I was happy to get some closure in the sense that it was part of my history involving many fond memories, and that I was more than happy to treasure them from a distance.

It was an opportunity to say truly say goodbye to my childhood home and move on.

The best part is that I did find my own starter home a couple of years later that ticked all of my own boxes, a home where I lived happily for almost two decades and made fond new memories.

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Sincere thanks for reading!
Have a great day,
André