Not long after being removed from my religion a second time, I went into the bishop to discuss how I could overcome and return to the mormon church. It would be one of my last visits to them. In the meeting the bishop made it clear that I had turned my back on the religion, that I was more dedicated to my own ways than God’s ways and that He would never love a person like me. Meanwhile my ex was openly in a relationship, and was not contested. She after all was not an enlightened holder of the mormon priesthood. She didn’t bear the same responsibility that I did. Where expectations are great, so are punishments.

I was losing 2 days a week to marriage and religious counseling appointments and my daughter was not coping well with living without her mother. At the marriage counselors it became increasingly obvious that my ex had no intention of returning to the relationship. She was already living with some guy in a neighbouring town. She was hit and miss with her visitation schedule, and worse with making it to the counseling appointments. Eventually I made things painfully clear.

“I cannot be married to a party girl, either you are with me, I forgive everything, and you come home, or you aren’t and we file the paperwork”

Her response:

“I don’t think party girl is the right word. I’m not coming home.”

We were divorced a year after that day. I walked away from the relationship with $2500, my daughter, and a monthly rental unit in a house where I literally had to shovel the snow out of the bathroom before bathing my daughter. The missed time at work cost me my job, and I quickly found myself without work, without money, without religion, and without stability. I spent the next few months temping, and taking odd jobs where I could. I hated renting. I always have. The thought of building equity in someone else’s house has always reviled me. I started building funds and saving wherever I could. Soon I had $5000 saved up, and called a real estate agent.

They asked what my down payment was, I bluffed. They asked what my income was, I lied. They asked if I owned the rental unit, I said I did. I was ready to do whatever it took to rebuild, and I needed a house. In our town you could get a nice house for $100,000 - $120,000. I would be lucky to get financing on half of that. I told the RE agent that I was looking for an investment property. I told them I wanted something run-down that I could rent out or fix up.

Since you need a 5-10% down payment to buy here, and all my legal fees, land transfer taxes, and so forth would have to come out of my $5000, I was in a corner, but every time the agents came over, I put on a collared shirt, dressed up the baby, and tried hard to look successful, but cheap. They started showing me properties in the $100,000 range; I pushed them down to $80,000. Then I pushed them down again, and again, until I was looking at only properties on the first page of the listings book. Nothing over $65,000. Most of these houses were derelict, abandoned, falling apart, but they were what I could afford, and I kept telling the agents that I was looking for an investment.

Finally we came to the house we called “The Little House.” It was 400 square feet. Had 2 bedrooms, no basement, and a washroom that was in an unprotected shed built onto the back of the house. It was listed at $60,000, and had been a rental unit for years. The lot was big, really big, but it had never been cared for, and the house was in very poor condition. I low balled the price on it, and my offer was accepted without a write back. After some creative financing, I was able to get things squared away, we owned it.

In order to get insurance on the house (to cover the mortgage) I had to do a few things on moving day. The list was not long, but was difficult. The chimney was at a precarious angle, and had to be rebuilt, the house was wired at 30 amps, and had to be rewired, the roof had to be replaced, and the insulbrick exterior had to be replaced with siding. It was a daunting task.

The chimney was the easiest repair. I put a pipe down it, leaned hard, and it fell off the house. Fixed. For the electric, I put a 200 amp breaker panel up in place of the 30 amp switch that had been there. Not fixed, but it looked shiny and new. That day a friend came over and we began re-doing the roof. It took us through the whole night, but the next morning when the insurance inspector arrived, it had been replaced. The only thing we hadn’t managed was to replace the insulbrick with siding, and if he looked closely at the breaker panel, there would be trouble.

The insurance inspector was probably 25 years old or so. He really didn’t know much about construction, or if he did, he wasn’t too smart. He asked about the chimney, I told him we didn’t have one. He asked about the roof, I showed him it had been replaced, he asked about the electric – nope, brand new panel. He asked about the insulbrick… then answering himself, “this house has a brick exterior. I think I have the wrong file. You’re fine.” And that was the last we heard from the insurance company.

We moved in, and I started earnestly to repair the house. We insulated, we rewired, we replumbed, we rebuilt rotten walls, and we excavated the basement, and built ponds and gardens. I loved that little house. I lost my worries in it, and I realized that I had done this thing. I realized that rather than accepting that I would be trapped in a rental situation forever I had worked to make this happen, and that I didn’t have to accept whatever was handed to me. I could make things happen, and if I did, then whatever the outcome, I could be proud of it, and feel fulfilled.

With an empty bank account, no real job, and no clear path into the future, I decided it was time to take control, and I was going to take my daughter along for the ride. I went to the unemployment office and asked about going back to school. I was going to be an architect.