I showed hundreds of houses and learned the phrase they always said: the kitchen just feels wrong. They were never talking about cabinets. They were talking about divorce, or Sunday mornings, or the mother who cooked and is gone.
My job was part therapist, part spreadsheet, part person who remembers where the fuse box is. Closing day smelled like fresh paint and panic. I kept tissues in my purse and a pen that worked.
I was good at it because I listen. I still listen at my table when friends debate moving, renting, aging in place. I do not advise—I am not licensed anymore. I feed them and let silence do its work.
Homes are hosts too. They hold our meals and our fights and our reunions. Honor that when you choose one.