Last night, Morgan, our realtor came over.
We three sat huddled around stacks of papers, each had our own alcoholic beverage set at our fingertips. We talked money. We talked lack of money. We talked theory and family.
In the end, we wrote out a proposal. We signed at the X, highlighted in yellow (so we didn't miss it), careful to squish our names onto the dotted line. With one swoosh of Morgan's fancypants pen, we offered:
We'll trade YOU, Mister and Missus SoonToBeNoMore, seller of house on Cloudcroft Court, no less than our entire savings account, and our debt for the next 30 years, if you kindly give us the keys to your home.
Please give us the keys to your home.