A House Used to Own Me

I used to own a house. Or, rather, a house owned me. A three- bedroom, 1.75-bath, mid-century modern home on a ridge in Los Angeles, Calif. with views that fed the soul. From the first moment we stepped through the front door, I belonged to this house.

Now? Well, now I sit on a couch in a basement surrounded by our stuff—what’s left of it. Piles of folded clothes, garbage bags stuffed with hats and purses and shoes, sleeping bags and electronic equipment. Books and boxes. My laptop. In my lap. This basement belongs to my mom and stepdad. It is located in Barrington, Ill., 2,014 miles away from the place we called home for the last seven years until we, narrowly avoiding foreclosure, sold everything and hit the road. I am 34 and I, with my husband, our pug dog and what is left of our belongings, have moved back in with my parents

This is not a sad story. This is anything but…