Our real estate agent’s name is Rod, and I get the sense that he might be a very lonely man. He seems positively happy to spend his Saturday afternoons with us, as if it’s a relief for him to step outside of his life for a few hours. He’s quick to smile, and before either Rachelle or I can finish a sentence, he begins to laugh. And if he’s not laughing, he’s apologizing for something inconsequential.
In short order we found out that he was freshly divorced, and that his ex-wife– who won custody of their seven year-old boy– now lives in the home they bought together when they started their family. Rod is living in a condo down by the lake. He laughs when he tells us this, and then takes a sip from the coffee he bought at The Second Cup. He pushes open the door to the master bedroom, “new windows, “ he says, rapping his knuckle against them.
It must be heartbreaking for him to shepherd couples like us around day after day, couples full of optimism and hope about the future they’re building together. There must have been something in each one of the six homes we saw yesterday that reminded him of the life that he had hoped to enjoy with his wife and son.
In the basement, beneath the stairs and beside the workbench, the husband’s work desk–a framed photograph of his son in a Maple Leafs jersey sitting beside the computer. In the little used guest room, a folded blanket that smells of mothballs. Inside the fridge, a half bottle of white wine, a box of left over piazza, and a few containers of vitamins. The doorbell mounted on a piece of wood sculpted to resemble a guitar. A sweatshirt draped over the back of a chair, the words “Thinking of You” written across the front.