My Apartment, Then Our Apartment: Ten Years On From Buying Before I Married

A reader writes:

I bought my apartment at thirty-one, on my own, and I was so proud of it I used to take the long way up the stairs just to walk past my own front door. One bedroom, third floor, a balcony big enough for two plastic chairs and a pot of mint, and a view of the car park and, if you leaned out far enough, one corner of the harbour. The day I signed the papers, my mother cried and my aunt asked, “But what about when you marry?” as if I had bought a wedding dress with no groom.

I met Marlon about a year later at a friend’s baby dedication. We married eighteen months after that. He moved in with two suitcases, a guitar and a sound system that was bigger than my television. Ten years on, we are still here, although not in the one-bedroom. I am writing because a young woman at church asked me recently whether she should buy now or wait until she was married, and I realised I had a lot to say about it, and not all of it was simple.

The first thing I want to say is that buying on my own was one of the best decisions I ever made. It gave me a kind of steadiness I had never had renting. It also meant that when I met Marlon, I was not looking for someone to rescue me. I had already done a hard thing myself. I think that made me a better wife, not a worse one, although I know some people at church thought otherwise. One older sister told me a woman with her own house would “find it hard to submit”. I have thought about that comment for ten years and I still don’t think a mortgage has much to do with it.

But I will be honest about the hard part. For the first year or two of our marriage, the apartment was “my place” in a way I did not even notice. I decided where things went. I had opinions about how the dishes were stacked and which towels were for guests. When Marlon wanted to put up a shelf for his music equipment, I said no because I didn’t want holes in the wall. My wall. I actually said that once, “my wall,” and I saw his face and knew something was wrong.

He felt like a lodger. He said it one night after we had argued about something small, I can’t remember what. “I feel like I’m living in your house.” He was paying half the mortgage by then, and half the bills, and he still felt like a guest. That hit me hard, because I realised I had been holding on to the apartment as a kind of insurance. If the marriage failed, I still had my place. I had never said that out loud, even to myself, but it was there.

We went to see our pastor, which I did not want to do, and he did not give us a sermon. He asked us both a very simple question: “What would it take for this to feel like your home, together?” Marlon’s answer was practical: he wanted some say in the space, and he wanted to know that what he was putting in counted for something. Mine was harder to say. I wanted to know I would be safe if things went wrong. We sat with that for a while. I remember the pastor saying that both of those were reasonable desires, and that marriage is where you work them out together instead of each person protecting themselves.

Over the next few months we did three things. First, we sat down with an attorney and talked about the apartment properly, what I had put in before we married, what he was putting in now, and what would be fair. I won’t say what we decided, because it’s our business and every couple is different, but it was written down and we both understood it, and afterwards Marlon said he slept better. Honestly, so did I. Second, we made our wills, which neither of us had done. Third, and this sounds small, I let him repaint the living room. He chose a dark green. I hated it for a month and then I loved it. It’s the first thing people comment on when they visit the new place, because we painted that room green again.

We sold the apartment four years ago when our second child was born, and used what it had gained towards a small three-bedroom house. Marlon made a point of saying, at the closing, “This one started with you.” I think he meant it kindly. I know I cried.

So what did I tell the young woman at church?

I told her that if she can afford it and it makes sense for her life, she should not wait for a husband to buy a home. Buying it will not scare off the right man. But I also told her that if she does marry, she should be ready to open her hands. Not to give everything away without thinking, but to talk honestly with her husband and a lawyer, early, about how to make it fair. And to notice if she starts using the house as a wall between them.

Jesus said where your treasure is, your heart will be also. For a while, part of my heart was in that one-bedroom apartment, locked up tight in case I needed to run back to it. It took me longer than I would like to admit to move it into the marriage. But I did, eventually. And the dark green walls are still the best thing in the house.

— Andrea, Kingston

Editor’s note

Andrea’s letter captures something many people who buy before marriage will recognise: property can quietly become a place to hide as well as a place to live. Her story suggests two lessons. Practically, couples in her position should take legal advice together about how a property owned before marriage is treated, and put their understanding in writing, alongside wills. Relationally, it helps to name the fears underneath, whether of being a lodger or of being left unprotected, so they can be dealt with openly. “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” (Matthew 6:21) applies to apartments as much as to anything else.

Reader letters may be edited for length and clarity, and names and identifying details are changed.

This article is general information only and is not financial, legal, tax or other professional advice. Please speak to a qualified professional about your own circumstances.

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