We drove past the shaded stone mansions, their long driveways curving through crested iron gates and over sloped green manicured lawns, racing our way towards the title company’s office to sign the papers before our minds changed.  We arrived late and frantic.  I’d forgotten my license and panicked wondering if we’d be allowed to close on our house without it, and secretly hoped we wouldn’t.  Maybe just a day’s delay would bring us to our senses – I thought.  One more late night conversation with Becky might uncover a never-before-thought-of reason for backing out, for staying put in this mansion of our own.  Maybe Becky, in those few extra hours a delay would give us, could concoct a brilliantly persuasive argument for keeping our dream home and not downsizing, some kind of an argument with the phrase “for the children” in it, something I could lightly struggle against before caving into agreement.

But there was no delay.  And no new arguments from Becky.  Amazon.com, I was told, where my CDs are listed for sale – that’s proof enough of who I am.  “That doesn’t seem like proff enough.  I don’t even look my CD cover,” I argued, but they wouldn’t listen.  So, gathered around a mahogany table littered with papers and folders, Becky and I signed our house over to another couple, the house we designed and built and moved into just over a year ago.

Then those papers were packed up and carried out in a bulging binder by an assistant dressed in black, like a pallbearer shouldering off a loved one.  Then more papers and more folders arrived and more signatures deeded a new house over to us.  It’s a smaller home carpeted in teal green shag at the moment.  All of its cabinets don’t open.  The list of small repairs and patches our inspector thinks need to be done is five pages long.  Mildew has grown over patches of its vinyl siding and sidewalk.  Gutters have come unbolted from the roof line in spots and the dishwasher leaks through the floor and into the crawl space below.  Two large dogs have periodically urinated on the floors for years, chewed chunks of trim away from doorways and scratched the backdoor windows until they can’t be seen through anymore.  It’s perfect – I think – somedays I think.  It’s just enough house for us.  Kids will share rooms.  We’ll bathe in a smaller tub.  No space will be unused.  And in time we’ll make it look and feel like home.  Until then it needs work.  And I need confirmation that this whole downsizing thing is a good idea.

So on the silent drive back from the title company, the papers signed, the deal done and my stomach cramping with remorse, I asked Becky, “Is this a big mistake?” “We don’t need it,” she smiled squeezing my hand as we wound back through the wide avenues flanked by stone mansions and green manicured lawns.  “I guess so,” I said after a lengthy pause.

And I think I mean that.  I think I believe her.  But man, I’m gonna miss my bathtub.