“It’s a typo,” I said, even as something bright and dangerous flickered in my chest.
“Or it’s haunted.”
But the listing wasn’t on some sketchy site. It was on the county’s tax‑auction page. A six‑hundred‑square‑foot single‑family home on one acre in a town I’d never heard of called Milfield, two hours southwest of Chicago.
The description didn’t sugarcoat anything: no functioning utilities, significant disrepair, sold as‑is.
“That place looks like tetanus,” Rachel said. “In a field.”
“Or freedom,” I murmured.
The accountant in me started doing math.
If the $3,600 price was real and I put, say, fifteen thousand into repairs, I’d still be under twenty thousand for a paid‑off house. Less than the down payment on any half‑decent condo inside I‑294.
No mortgage. Just taxes and utilities.
I emailed the county office fully expecting an auto‑reply or a scam.
Instead, the next morning, an actual human responded. The property was real.
The price was real. It had been vacant for years, seized after the previous owner died and his kids, who lived out of state, stopped paying the property taxes.
Most people, the woman wrote, walked away once they saw the condition.
I took Friday off and drove to Milfield.
The town snuck up on me. One minute I was on I‑55 surrounded by semis and billboards for fireworks and billboards warning me about the billboards.
The next, I’d turned onto a county road that narrowed to two lanes lined with soybeans and corn. The sky felt absurdly big, an inverted bowl of blue stretching forever.
Milfield proper was a handful of blocks: a diner with a neon coffee cup, a grocery store with a gravel parking lot, a hardware store that still had a bell on the door, a library the size of my Chicago apartment. There was a post office, a grain elevator, a park with a swing set that creaked in the wind.
The house was on the edge of town, past a cluster of modest ranches and farmhouses.
When I pulled into the rutted driveway and turned off my engine, the silence rang in my ears.
The listing photo hadn’t lied.
The porch sagged like a tired back. Two windows were boarded; the others were spider‑webbed with cracks. Weeds and saplings had taken the yard hostage.
The paint, whatever color it had once been, now peeled away in paper‑thin curls.
But the lot went back farther than I’d expected, all the way to a skinny creek lined with willow trees. A cornfield spread beyond that, green and gold and impossibly wide. The nearest neighbor’s house was visible but not close enough to hear me sneeze.
For the first time in my life, I couldn’t hear anyone else’s television.
The county clerk had given me a code to let myself in.
I braced a shoulder against the swollen front door, pushing until it groaned open.
The smell hit me first: stale air, old wood, something damp but not quite mold. Dust motes swam in the light from the cracked windows.
There was a tiny living room with a wood‑burning stove that had probably been installed before my parents were born. The kitchen held avocado‑green cabinets and appliances that belonged in a museum.
The single bedroom was barely big enough for a full‑size bed and a dresser. The bathroom fixtures looked like they’d been picked out by someone who once voted for Nixon.
Floorboards were soft in places; I tested every step like I was crossing a frozen lake.
By every normal metric, it was a nightmare.
But I could see it.
I could see drywall patched and painted a warm white, a new mini‑split humming quietly, fresh windows catching the morning light. I imagined coffee on a rebuilt porch, bare feet on smooth wood, quiet nights with no upstairs neighbor clomping around at two a.m.
I saw the life I might have if I stopped shoving my needs to the bottom of the family spreadsheet.
By the time I drove back to Chicago that night, the decision felt less like a choice and more like a conclusion I’d been walking toward for years.
I did the due diligence.
I checked for liens, requested the county’s inspection report, called a plumber and an electrician in the nearest bigger town to get rough estimates. I opened a fresh Excel sheet and listed out everything I could think of: roof, electrical, plumbing, windows, insulation, drywall, flooring, fixtures, heating and cooling.
Next to each line item, I put a number.
Two thousand.
Twenty‑five hundred.
Eighteen hundred.
The total came in just under sixteen thousand. Add the $3,600 purchase price, and I was looking at nineteen‑six.
Nearly all of my savings.
I stared at that number for a long time.
Nineteen thousand six hundred dollars for a house I would own outright versus throwing half that amount at another of Jessica’s emergencies.
On the day of the tax auction, I sat at my little kitchen table with my laptop open and Rachel pacing behind me.
“What’s the worst case?” she asked as the timer on the listing counted down.
“I win and it collapses on me,” I said. “Or I lose and have to admit I got emotionally attached to a building with raccoons in the attic.”
No one else bid.
At exactly ten a.m., a bland “Congratulations, highest bidder” banner popped up, along with a payment link for three thousand six hundred dollars.
I wired the money.
An hour later, an email arrived with a scanned copy of the deed and instructions about when the official paper would be ready.
Just like that, I owned a house.
I printed the listing photo—the same crooked shot of the sagging porch, the weeds, the sad little structure determined not to fall over. I smoothed it out on my desk, a flimsy piece of paper holding the biggest decision I’d ever made.
That printout became my talisman, the thing I tucked into my planner, the thing I pulled out when work felt endless and Chicago rents felt murderous.
It was still in my purse the night everything exploded.
The setup for that explosion looked, at first, like every other “family meeting” we’d ever had.
It was a Sunday. Late April. My parents’ driveway was full—Jessica’s car, Dad’s pickup, Mom’s Camry freshly washed for church.
The pot roast was already on the table when I walked in.
Jessica was glowing in that particular way she got when she’d discovered a new life path and needed an audience.
“We’re so glad you could make it,” Mom said, her voice a little too bright. Dad uncorked a Cabernet we all knew they were saving for “something special.”
I should’ve recognized the signs. In my family, expensive wine meant an expensive ask.
Jessica waited until we’d all filled our plates before sighing theatrically.
“I’ve been having the worst headaches,” she said, rubbing her temples with manicured fingers. “And this bone‑deep fatigue. My regular doctor says my bloodwork is fine, but my holistic nutritionist thinks it’s adrenal fatigue and… environmental toxicity.”
Of course she had a holistic nutritionist.
Mom’s eyes went wide with concern.
Dad nodded with grave seriousness. I focused on keeping my fork out of my eye.
“There’s this retreat,” Jessica said, her voice softening like it was a lullaby. “In Northern California.
Serenity Springs. It’s invite‑only. They do personalized detox, nervous‑system rewiring, spiritual alignment.
My friend Alexis went last year, and now she’s running a six‑figure wellness‑coaching practice.”
“How much?” Dad asked, though I was willing to bet he already knew.
Jessica took a breath, eyes flicking to me. “Five thousand six hundred dollars for the week. That includes everything.
Lodging, organic meals, all the therapies.”
I almost choked on my water.
Five thousand six hundred dollars. For seven days.
More than I’d just paid for a house.
Mom squeezed Jessica’s hand. “Honey, if this could help you finally get your health and career on track, of course we want to support you.”
“We can cover two thousand,” Dad said, like a judge issuing a sentence.
“It’s a stretch, but you’re worth it.”
Three pairs of eyes turned toward me.
“Amanda,” Jessica said, using that gentle tone she reserved for yoga students crying in child’s pose. “I know you’re so good with money. You’ve always been prepared.
I was hoping you could help with the other three thousand six hundred. Just until my coaching business takes off.”
The exact number I had just wired for a house two days earlier.
My mouth went dry. I hadn’t told them about Milfield yet.
I’d wanted the deed in my hand first, wanted to be sure it was real before I invited their criticism into it.
“I don’t have an extra three thousand six hundred dollars lying around,” I said carefully. “Not the way you mean.”
Mom frowned. “But you’re always saving.
Don’t you have an emergency fund?”
“This isn’t an emergency,” I said. “It’s a retreat.”
“It’s
