My realtor, Mrs. Pine, is a stout woman in her late fifties. Like me, she was a homemaker for much of her life, though unlike me, she has a supportive husband who encouraged her to find a job once their kids grew up and left the house.
Still, she is personable and reliable. She’s never late, always texts and calls with diligence. With her guidance, I have three house tours lined up for the weekend, and two more in the works for the following week, if these don’t pan out.
“I want my daughters there,” I tell her over the phone during one of my work breaks.
“Understandable,” Mrs. Pine replies. “I think your girls will enjoy many features of these homes. One even has a swing set in the backyard.”
Iris and Violet are getting a little old for swing sets, but I still appreciate Mrs. Pine’s k
