It takes a few years. But when it kicks in, it floors you: when you pay rent, you make someone else wealthy. Justin and I have been together for eleven years, and paying rent for ten. To date, we've poured upwards of $96,000 into other peoples' mortgages.

<insert disgusted silence here>

We want something old, but loved. A farmhouse with a pantry. Painted wood floors. Stairs that creak. Warm and smokey. Tucked-in, nestled in woods that harbour winding brooks and hidden lakes. A meadow instead of a lawn, filled with secret pathways through walls of raspberry bushes and goldenrod.

Too much to hope for, too soon?

I realize we’re not going to buy the home of our dreams, first time out. But I still expect some feeling to wash over me when we go inside the house that’s meant to be ours. This is it! Regardless of an old roof or foundation cracks or walls destined for the sledgehammer. This place belongs to us, fits us. And we belong to it.

We’re looking half-heartedly, each time feeling a little dejected when we walk in the door and feel nothing, a flatness, the indifferent politeness of someone else’s space.

The whole experience reminds me of dating, circa 1995. Even with an improved haircut and better shoes, this one’s still too much of a compromise. Or that one’s great on paper, but void of chemistry. And the same advice applies, I think: have faith. The right one will make itself known to us in its own good time.

It will, won’t it?