A house came on the market today.
Scrolling through the new inventory — a daily ritual — I paused on a familiar kind of home. A 1960s split-level, in a suburb of Boston. Nothing extraordinary at first glance. But then, the photos started telling their story.
The kitchen — oh, the kitchen — still proudly wore its 1970s wallpaper like a badge of honor. Harvest golds and olives, dancing in floral formation, wrapped around cabinets and appliances that haven’t bowed to time. The room was frozen. Preserved. I could almost hear the hum of a countertop radio and the clatter of a foil Swanson TV-dinner on a folding tray table coming from the living room. A snapshot from someone’s yesterday. My own, maybe.
Then came a bedroom. A boy’s, I think. Their son’s? Ten — maybe more — hockey sticks stood perfectly aligned against the wall. Not tossed. Not forgotten. Leaning like soldiers, straight and dignified. The bed made. The posters still clinging. The kind of room kept “just so,” even after the boy no longer lived in it — or perhaps, heartbreakingly, after he no longer could.
These homes are museums of quiet lives. This one, perhaps still in the hands of its original owners, or their children now letting go. A lifetime contained within four walls — birthdays, holidays, pot roast in the oven on Sunday nights, muddy cleats on hardwood floors.
Soon, this will change. A contractor will gut the kitchen. Out will go the wallpaper, the linoleum, the oddly shallow cabinets. In will come quartz and white shaker cabinets and recessed lights. Trendy. Bright. Modern.
But I wish I could save that kitchen wallpaper. Peel it off gently and press it between the pages of a book. Not to stop progress, but to remember the people who came before. The lives lived. The laughter heard. The love layered into those walls.
Sometimes, scrolling through real estate photos isn’t just about finding what’s new. It’s about remembering what was.
We don't just sell houses — it’s personal. It’s about people; their lives, their memories, their transitions.
Over two decades we've helped close chapters, and helped open new ones just beginning. And sometimes, we get to hold space for both.
