Home Sweet Home

I purchased a home for the first time in my life last summer. Or rather, the bank that sold me a loan purchased a Craftsman style Bungalow built in 1921 in Greensboro, North Carolina and I paid a (mostly borrowed) down payment. My father always said “You need to spend money to make money” but I’ve always avoided debt and “investment” like the plague; I moved across an ocean to a country with socialized medicine, among other reasons, to avoid ever being caught in a spiral of medical debt. I’ve never owned property before, never lived anywhere for more than 10 years, never felt comfortable enough to put down roots in a place by signing (almost) everything I own on the dotted line. Now this place belongs to me (to us, I bought it with my husband), according to the deeds and the assessors and the property records books. The bank takes money out of my account monthly and will continue to do so for 30 years. Until I’m past the age of retirement. I’m supposed to feel newfound freedom as a bonafide homeowner, but mostly, I feel that weight.