It felt like home

There's a house on "P" Street that's been on the market for a while. Each time I drive by it, I'm curious about the little house. It's adorable. It has a white picket fence, old windows, and a brick porch. Today it was open. My mother, Nana, and I went on an adventure to check it out. The inside was more charming than the outside. Beadboard, a narrow staircase, and a mud room graced the interior of the house. It was tiny and filled with character--it was as if all my dreams of my future home came alive in this little place. As I walked out the door, a precious woman with a wagon and a horn, tried to sell me her homemade tamales. I fell in love. It felt right. I began to make plans for the rooms and for decorating.

When we got home, Rocco called the person who does his loans. My mother and I thought my dreams were in vain, but Rocco seemed hopeful. We did some calculations and discovered that the lowest possible house payment would be equivalent to my check each month.

It felt wrong. I work incredibly hard each day of my life. I often work 12 hour days and right through the weekend. I've been told that my profession is the noblest profession that exists. And, yet, unless I get married or change professions, this one bedroom apartment is my destiny. I'm afraid that one day I'm going to lose it and start painting my walls and installing bookcases. What would the manager say then?