My seller accepted an offer last Tuesday. Full asking price, pre-approved buyer, clean inspection. Dream scenario, right? Wrong. Wednesday morning she calls me hyperventilating because she realized she'd have to actually *leave* the house. The house she listed. The house she hired me to sell. The house we've been marketing for six weeks. She spent the next 72 hours cycling through what I can only describe as the five stages of grief, except she invented three new stages: denial, anger, repainting the bathroom "one last time," sobbing while hugging the kitchen island, and finally demanding we counter at 40% above asking to "test how serious they are." Thursday she accused me of "rushing her" because I mentioned the buyer needed a response by Friday. Ma'am, that's how contracts work. By Saturday she wanted to pull the listing entirely because she "wasn't emotionally ready" and also because Mercury was in retrograde. We closed last week. She cried at the final walkthrough, gave the new owners a six-page letter about the house's "personality," and asked if she could come back to visit the rose bushes. I need a drink. It's 9 AM and I don't care.