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I bought a house in July, 2020. All by myself, as a grown-up single woman teetering on turning 50, I bought a house of my own.

Before that, I’d only lived in a house that I sort-of co-owned with my (now ex) husband. I say sort-of because although we lived in our last home for 20 years, since he was the breadwinner for quite a few of those, and even with funds from a joint checking account, he paid the mortgage; he considered it his house.

So in July of 2020, when I secured a mortgage for a very large sum, and plunked down what seemed to be a gargantuan down payment, I was thrilled to own my first little piece of the planet, with a gorgeous colonial townhome atop it.

Since May of 2018, my ex and I had been trying to sell that home we’d shared for two decades. It was becoming a millstone where once we had dreamt of it being a cornerstone. We first put it on the market at an eager $199k with the full intention of dropping the price very soon to $189k to grab some attention. “Price Drop of 10k — this property is a must-see.” That sort of thing.

I was hopeful. My ex was living in the house. I had long since moved, but initially he seemed to have dreams of hanging on to the home where we’d…