I showed the same couple forty-seven houses over eight months. Forty-seven. I kept a spreadsheet because my therapist said I needed to "document my frustrations in healthy ways." Every single property had something fatally wrong with it. Too close to a school, too far from a school, weird energy in the basement, the neighbor's dog looked aggressive through the fence, the street name reminded her of an ex-boyfriend. Finally, FINALLY, they found "the one." We wrote the offer that night. They celebrated with champagne. I cried in my car from relief. The next morning, she called to say they'd driven by at 6 AM to "feel the sunrise energy" and a jogger ran past who didn't wave at them, so now they're concerned the neighborhood isn't friendly enough. They want to keep looking. I told them I was going on an extended vacation. I'm not. I'm just sitting in my office with the lights off, eating string cheese and pretending I chose a different career. My husband asked why I was laughing and crying at the same time last night. I couldn't even explain it.