The Talking House Made Me Rich

We were getting ready to buy a place and get married, and the agent, working within our budget, pushed a thirty-year-old dump on us.

My girlfriend blew up on the spot, said the agent was judging us by our wallets.

All her friends lived in big, single-floor units, and she threatened that if I dared buy some run-down shoebox as our marriage home, we were done.

I was about to smooth things over, say we could look at other places, when an old, aged voice suddenly popped into my head: