Raritan

Dear Dad,

Last week, while G3 was at camp, we moved. We bought a house we don’t love—one that needs more work than we can afford—because our landlord ended our lease and gave us only a very small window to get out. The fact that Kati and I work in school districts far from each other, combined with the fact that we wanted to get G3 in a better school, seriously limited our options. As a result, we were only looking in Bridgewater and Raritan. Initially, we had hoped that in the Spring we would see more houses going on the market. We were disappointed. The ones we saw were either out of our price range or in a serious state of disrepair. I didn’t want to move to Raritan. My preference was Bridgewater—although they feed into the same middle school and high school. Raritan is small and cramped and so close to the Raritan River that the houses often flood. After my last experience, with the neighbor from hell who blasted her music at all hours and her kids who had raging parties that ran all night, the last thing I wanted was to live in close proximity to people. But as you know, I almost never get my wish. The Universe just doesn’t like me to be happy.

In early June, a Cape Cod house in Raritan went on the market. Out of desperation, we put a bid on it, even though it was small and we didn’t like it. Our bid was ridiculously high to ensure that we got the house. I figured, if nothing else, it would buy us time. When I asked the realtor at what point we’d still be able to back out, she told me after the inspection. Well, the signing of the initial paperwork coincided with Kati’s father’s death. Without a clear head, and without showing it to me, she signed the first document committing us to a downpayment of $50,000. By the time the inspection rolled around, it was too late to back out. If we did, we’d lose all that money. But the inspection was a disaster. There was so much wrong with house—from sewage seeping out of the pipes, to fractured floor joists, to faulty electrical wiring—that we no longer wanted it. There was no way we could afford—especially after overpaying for the house—to fix everything that was wrong. 

So, Kati contacted our lawyer. She flat out told him we didn’t want the house, that we needed someone to advocate for us to get us out of it, but he refused to help us. He only wanted to push the sale through, even though we told him we didn’t want it to go through. Kati’s sister-in-law tried to help us get out of the deal. Calling on prior experience, she drafted a letter to the sellers, demanding that all the safety and health issues be fixed if they wanted the sale to go through. Surprisingly, the sellers agreed to meet all our demands. But they didn’t. It turned our our realtor paid for many of the repairs, despite us telling her we didn’t want the house. That if our demands weren’t met we could legally back out and get our money back. She was supposed to be working for us, but even when we told her we changed our minds, we wanted out, she pushed and pushed and pushed, freely spending her own money to ensure that the sale when through. When Kati received word that the problems were all addressed, she was appalled at what she found. The work that was done was shoddy, and some of our demands were clearly not met. Again, she approached the realtor and lawyer insisting that they help us back out in a way that would enable us to recoup our downpayment. She drafted another letter, stating that she needed the buyer to pay us enough money to cover the costs of things that still needed to be fixed. They agreed to pay only a percentage. To ensure that the sale when through, both realtors—the seller’s and ours—paid the difference. I have never dealt with anyone who was so unethical.

As a result, we got stuck with a house that’s way too small. It has a backyard the size of a postage stamp and neighbors who are too damn close. This week, I had planned to paint G3’s room and my study, the two upstairs rooms. But when I started removing nails and other fixtures from the walls, the walls started peeling. Larges chunks at a time. Plus, paint had been applied to the doors which had previously been varnished, so the paint was pealing off. We promised G3 that his room would look really nice. But making his room nice requires more skill and knowledge than I have. Also, with school starting back up, I don’t have much time. Therefore, we will have to hire a professional with money we don’t have. The main floor of the house had recently been renovated. The primary bedroom, living room, kitchen, and bathroom are nice. How do you renovate your own living space, yet allow your children to live in rooms that are crumbling? If it were me, I’d make sure G3’s space was the best it could be before taking care of my own space. Our new neighbors said that if we had met the previous owners, we wouldn’t be surprised. That sort of behavior totally jived with their personalities. 

We would also—with money we don’t have—like to convert the three-season room into a dining room. I have no interest in a three-season room. If the weather is nice, I want to be outside. If it isn’t, then I can write or read in my study. The three-season room—in my opinion—is a waste of space. Besides, the house has a small kitchen and no dining room, which means we would have to squeeze a table into the kitchen. That isn’t appealing considering family dinners are important to me. 

The neighbors to our left are nice. We like them. They sent us a welcome to the neighborhood gift and we’ve chatted with them a few times. The neighbor to our right I dislike greatly. He periodically goes outside to his garage and blasts his music. I do not understand why people feel the need to play their music so loud. If other people wanted to be listening to it, they’d be playing their own. But at least, so far, he never stays out long.

In all honesty, nothing would have been as good, or as acceptable, as the house on Walnut Street that we all fell in love with. We should have known then that our realtor wasn’t good. We told her we wanted it, and she said she had been in the business long enough that she could get it for us. She didn’t. If we had thrown the same amount of money at that house as we ended up throwing at this one, it would have been ours—and it would have been worth it. We envisioned ourselves in it. We put only good thoughts out into the Universe and we still didn’t get it. This house, the one we are in, we envisioned getting out of it, finding something else, and moving there instead. But alas, it’s where we ended up. 

If you were here, you’d probably say the house was cute and you’d tell me to find something appealing about it. The best I can say is that G3 is in a better school district—not the best, but better. Hopefully, this year, and in high school, he will get a good education. I can also hear the cicadas at night, and you know how much I love listening to them, especially when I’m going to sleep.

I miss you!