We’d just bought our first home after what felt like a decade of scraping and saving. It wasn’t fancy, and it certainly wasn’t move-in ready, but it was ours. Every chipped corner, every creaky stair, every dusty closet—it belonged to us.

Weekends became renovation marathons. We would collapse into bed at night smelling like paint thinner, our fingers stained with primer, a box of greasy pizza on the counter. Exhausting, yes, but also strangely romantic.