They say if life stops listening, change your scenery.
For me, that meant changing zip codes—and maybe deleting all my dating apps. After a string of awful relationships, the last straw was a McDonald’s breakup.
“You’re very dear to me… like a friend,” he said, holding a box of fries.
Three years down the drain — and one gassy chihuahua weekend I can’t unlive.
Before him, there was Max. Greek god on the outside, emotional tumbleweed on the inside. He cheated—with my friend.
The one before that? Let’s just say my therapist still brings it up.
So no, I didn’t cry. I ordered pizza, opened my laptop, and typed:
Google didn’t have a category for that. But I found a listing:
Click.
It was perfect: wooden, cozy, garden, porch. And—my hometown! The kind of place where the librarian remembers your zodiac sign. But the price… still a bit high.
I submitted a form, not expecting much.
Minutes later: a video call request.
A woman appeared—silver curls, cherry lipstick, floral robe.
“Darling! It’s me, Edna! You inquired about the house.”
“Do we… know each other?”
“Probably not. I forget most things by lunch anyway.”
She was odd, but warm. When I mentioned the price being too high, she smiled and said:
“I’ve lowered it. A special deal for someone real. Maybe a little broken, but still breathing.”
I laughed. For the first time in weeks.
We signed quickly. I didn’t read the fine print. I mean, it’s just a house—what could possibly go wrong?
A week later, I arrived. The house was perfect. I found the key in a pot of pelargoniums and started unpacking.
But that night, upstairs… I heard music.
Old-timey waltz music.
I crept up, and there she was — Edna — waltzing like it was 1942.
“You sold me this house!” I stammered.
“Yes! And I live here too,” she chirped. “Didn’t you read the contract?”
I ran to my laptop and found Clause 8:
“What the hell is this?!”
Edna just winked. “You bought more than a house, sweetheart. You bought community.”
Living with Edna was like starring in a chaotic sitcom I didn’t audition for.
She replaced my curtains with ones that glowed in the dark. She vacuumed during my Zoom calls. She threw away my favorite underwear because they “screamed loneliness.”
One day, I snapped. I ran through the woods like I was fleeing a cult.
But when I returned—sweaty and serene—I saw men’s sneakers in the hallway.
“Please be a plumber,” I whispered.
In the kitchen: a man. Not a plumber. Not the mailman. A man-man.
“Oh! Meet Jason, my grandson,” Edna beamed. “Doctor. Single. Remember him?”
Jason looked up. And blinked.
“Wait… Olivia?! From college?”
We had known each other. We’d even almost gone on a date, once. But it never happened.
Edna smirked. “Of course I remembered. That’s why I gave you the discount—family rates!”
I locked myself in my room. This wasn’t real. It was matchmaking masquerading as real estate.
But then…
The next morning, I flipped the script.
Jason was flipping pancakes in my apron. I was wearing his hoodie, humming Sinatra. We looked like an Instagram couple from a sponsored syrup ad.
Edna came downstairs. Froze.
“Dear God… is that my sapphire ring?”
Jason grinned. “She said yes.”
Well… technically, I said “maybe” at 3:17 a.m. over peach pie.
Edna gasped. “I didn’t plan THIS! I just wanted one dinner! A casual movie night!”
Jason shrugged. “You said love can’t be scheduled.”
She threw her hands in the air. “Fine. But I won’t babysit before noon.”
We all laughed. But something inside me shifted.
That night, Jason and I had talked till sunrise. We confessed old college regrets, sang terrible ’90s hits, and for the first time… I felt found.
Maybe Edna wasn’t a meddling tornado after all.
Maybe she was fate’s loud, floral-robed messenger.
And maybe — just maybe — the fine print led me to something finer than I ever imagined.