For seven years of our marriage, Jane refused to buy a house.
We had savings, great credit, and every reason to do it — but every time I mentioned it, she’d quietly say, “It’s not the right time.”
I thought it was about money.
It wasn’t.
One night, she finally told me the truth.
Growing up, her mother had used their home as a weapon — a place to control her, limit her, silence her.
For Jane, owning a home didn’t mean stability.
It meant being trapped again.
It broke my heart — because while I dreamed of roots, she remembered chains.
With time, patience, and therapy, she began to heal.
Then one evening, she showed me a listing — a small, sunlit house with a garden.
She smiled and said, “What if we just go see it?”
A year later, we moved in.
We painted the walls ourselves, filled the rooms with laughter, and in the corner of the living room, Jane placed a small green plant she named “Freedom.” 🌱
For the first time, home wasn’t a prison from the past —
it was peace, built together.
