A real estate agent stood beside her holding a clipboard.
"Are you sure you want to see the inside?"
Naya nodded.
The agent looked toward the roof.
"I need to be clear. This property is going to require serious work."
"I know."
"The previous buyer withdrew after the inspection."
"I read the report."
The agent studied her.
"Then you understand this isn't a simple renovation."
Naya looked toward the front door.
For a moment, she thought about her mother.
Then answered.
"I've never needed simple."
The house had been on the market for almost a year.
It was located in a peaceful American suburb with mature trees, good schools, and convenient access to the city. Similar homes sold for considerably more, but this property had deteriorated after the owners fell behind on maintenance and eventually relocated.
The purchase price reflected its condition.
For most buyers, it represented an expensive problem.
For Naya, it represented the first possibility of building something permanent.
She had spent her early twenties working as a commercial interior-design project coordinator. Her days began before sunrise and often ended after dark. She managed renovation schedules, coordinated contractors, reviewed material costs, and learned which construction problems were minor inconveniences and which could destroy a budget.
She wasn't wealthy.
She drove an old sedan.
Cooked most of her meals at home.
And rented a small apartment where the bathroom sink leaked whenever the weather changed.
But she saved carefully.
She also received a modest inheritance after her grandmother died.
It wasn't enough to buy a finished home in the neighborhood.
Combined with her savings and an affordable mortgage, however, it gave her a chance to purchase a neglected property and improve it gradually.
Her mother accompanied her on the second viewing.
The older woman walked through the damaged kitchen, looked at the worn cabinets, and shook her head.
"Baby, this place is going to test you."
Naya smiled.
"Probably."
Her mother examined a cracked floor tile.
"You're not scared?"
Naya looked toward the enormous window overlooking the backyard.
"Terrified."
Her mother laughed.
"Then why do you want it?"
Naya thought for a moment.
"Because I can see what it could become."
Her mother studied her.
Then smiled.
"That's the same thing you used to say about broken furniture."
Naya laughed.
As a teenager, she collected discarded chairs and tables, repaired them, and sold them for small profits. Her mother never understood why her daughter enjoyed spending weekends sanding old wood, but she admired the patience it required.
Now Naya wanted to do the same thing with an entire house.