It was a two-bedroom, 2 bath condo in Buckhead, one of the best neighborhoods in Atlanta, GA. The location could not be better—near the supermarket, some shops and Borders bookstore. But shortly after I closed, I began to suspect that something had gone wrong—terribly wrong. I started asking people and looking on the Internet. Refinancing right away carried a penalty; the same for selling the place. I have overpaid and was now in deep trouble. I knew I was going to miss the condo (it was a quiet second floor walk-up), but the financial burden of keeping it would be overwhelming. I don’t know what is more devastating or damaging than losing the home that you love. A home is a place that more than shelters you. A home lets you be you. It keeps you when no one else does or wants to. You turn to it for more than a bed, a kitchen and a shower. And when it’s gone, there is no going back. It’s not just that things can never be the same—the damage is more harmful than anything a person has ever known. Foreclosure is a bad word. No one wants to pronounce it and yet so many people, like myself, have had to say it over and over again. My home was foreclosed.


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