I worked myself to the bone to buy my dream house.
Not a gift. Not an inheritance. Not a lucky break. I earned every inch of that place the hard way. Long shifts. Overtime. Sleepless nights. Babysitter bills, takeout dinners, tears in the bathroom, and a worn-out spine from standing 12 hours straight at work. Every dollar I saved was a dollar closer to something better—not just for me, but for my kids.
I dreamed of a home with space to breathe. A place where my babies could run in a yard instead of jumping over toys in a cramped apartment. Where I could cook in a real kitchen, open the windows and let in light. A place with roots. Stability. Peace.
