A reader writes:
I did not want to sell. I want to be honest about that from the start, because when people hear this story now they assume it was my idea and that I am some wise old man who saw the light. I was not. My wife, Dorothy, brought it up three times over two years, and three times I found a reason to change the subject.
The house was in a quiet scheme on the edge of Kingston. Four bedrooms, a big back verandah, a mango tree I planted when our first child was born and a lime tree that never did anything. We bought it in our thirties, stretched ourselves nearly to breaking, and raised three children there. I added a room when the second one came. I built the grille work on the verandah myself one Easter weekend and it is still slightly crooked. Every wall had something in it.
By the time I retired, the children were gone. One in Atlanta, one in Mandeville, one in Toronto. Dorothy and I lived in maybe three rooms: the kitchen, the front room and our bedroom. The other bedrooms filled up with things. A treadmill nobody used. Boxes of school books. My late father’s tools. Once a year at Christmas the house would come to life again, and for the other eleven months we were paying to cool, clean, insure, secure and fix a building that mostly held silence.
What finally moved me was not money, though the money mattered. It was a Saturday when I climbed on the roof to clear the gutter and came down too fast and landed hard. Nothing broke. But I sat on the step with my knee throbbing and Dorothy standing over me with that look, and I thought: how many more years am I going to climb up there? And who will do it when I can’t?
We talked to the children first. That was harder than I expected. Our eldest cried on the phone and then apologised for crying. Our youngest said, “But where will we come for Christmas?” which is a fair question from somebody who lives in the snow. Our middle one, the practical one, said, “Daddy, I have been waiting for you to say this for five years.” So you see, there was no single family opinion. There were three.
We made them a promise that we would not sell anything that mattered without asking them first, and we kept it. We spent three months going through the house room by room. They each came home at least once, or joined us on video while we held things up to the camera. I cannot tell you how many times I heard “Mummy, you still have that?” Some things they wanted. Most things, it turned out, none of us needed. We gave a lot away to the church and to a young couple from Dorothy’s workplace who were setting up their first flat. It is strange to see your old dining table in somebody else’s photos, but also good.
The selling part I will keep short. We got the house valued, we chose an agent who did not try to flatter us with a silly price, and we spoke to our attorney-at-law early so there were no surprises about the paperwork. It took longer than we hoped. One buyer fell away at the last moment and I took that personally, which was foolish. The family who bought it in the end have two little boys. On the day we handed over the keys, the smaller one ran straight to the mango tree. I had to go and sit in the car for a while.
We now live in a two-bedroom townhouse in a complex about twenty minutes away. There is a small patch of garden at the back where Dorothy grows scallion and thyme. The second bedroom is for whichever child or grandchild visits, and the rest of the time it is where I read. There is a maintenance fee, and some rules in the complex I grumble about. But when the rain comes now, I do not lie awake thinking about the back room ceiling. The roof is somebody else’s worry, and I pay for that gladly.
Here is what I did not expect. About three months after we moved, I came in from the shop and heard Dorothy singing in the kitchen. An old Sankey, “Blessed Assurance”, loud, with no radio on. I realised I had not heard her sing at home in years. Not because she was unhappy exactly, but because she was always doing something: mopping the unused rooms, worrying about the grilles, keeping a big place respectable for visitors who hardly came. When the house got smaller, she got some of herself back.
I have thought since about Paul saying he had learned to be content whether in plenty or in want (Philippians 4:11-12). I used to hear that as a verse about poor people making do. Now I think it is also about people with too much learning to put some of it down. I held on to that house because I thought letting go meant admitting that part of our life was over. It was over. The house did not make it less over. It only made it heavier.
I do miss it. I drive past sometimes, and the new owners have painted it a colour I would never have chosen. The mango tree is still there. I am glad it has children under it again.
— Clive, St Andrew
Editor’s note
Clive’s letter is a reminder that downsizing is as much about grief as about square footage. Two things he did well are worth copying: he brought the children into the conversation early and kept his promise not to part with meaningful things without asking them, and he took professional advice on value and paperwork before listing. Every family’s situation is different, and for some staying put is right. But if the house has become more burden than blessing, it is worth asking honestly what you are really holding on to.
Reader letters may be edited for length and clarity, and names and identifying details are changed.
