Standing at the door to my bedroom, my father stood in his dark blue suit tapping his foot and stared at his sixteen-year-old daughter.
“Jackie, hurry up. We’re going to be late,” he ordered.
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As if being chased by a mean googily-eyed monster, I ran faster than my little brother to the safety of my bedroom. Behind the closed door, I clutched the king-sized Aba Zabba in my plump, tight-fisted six-year-old hands, hanging onto the gooey taffy for dear life.
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Selling real estate, even in the best of circumstances, is an emotional process. I’ve always had a deep respect for my clients who were letting go of a family home, but I never fully understood the complexities of the process until recently.
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As I walked into the house after a lovely vacation in the Tahoe mountains, I was hit with the putrid smell of old age; that heavy, rancid odor a musty basement emits when full of decaying remnants of a life long gone by. This mixed with the wafting stench of wet, dirty diapers made me want to vomit, turn around and run away.
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