{
  "id": 6905725,
  "title": "On Not Being a Homeowner",
  "url": "https://urgent.news/2026/09/12/on-not-being-a-homeowner",
  "topic": "culture",
  "section": "Culture",
  "published": "2026-09-12T10:00:00.000Z",
  "source": {
    "name": "The New Yorker",
    "slug": "the-new-yorker",
    "url": "https://www.newyorker.com/news/the-weekend-essay/on-not-being-a-homeowner"
  },
  "original_language": "en",
  "account": "My mother wanted to dispose of all the toys from their previous home, but I resisted the idea. I cherished the memories of playing with the gold carpeted living room toys in the first home I lived in as a child. The house, located on Lindo Place, was a four-bedroom white stucco structure that I called home for almost eight years, until my parents separated. My mom, younger sister, and I moved to a smaller house on Baja, where the bedrooms were cramped and there was a moldy hot tub in the backyard. I was heartbroken when we left Lindo, as I loved my spacious bedroom, where I raised my beloved cat, Downey, and the sunny living room where I practiced piano. The thought of leaving behind my two dogs, who were buried on the property, added to my sorrow. My mother, who was getting older and planning to move to a rental property nearby, needed to sell her biggest asset, her house on Baja. The sale of her home was essential for her to support herself, as she had no other significant assets apart from a white Honda Accord. Although my mother gave me generous gifts on holidays, I rarely spent them as she needed the money more than I did. The widespread ownership of homes among my social and professional circle baffles me, given the amount of money these individuals earn and spend. My peers seem to afford down payments for million-dollar apartments, but I don't think they have the means to do so. The money for such purchases comes from generational wealth, allowing them to buy properties with help from their parents or grandparents. These future residences will likely appreciate in value and be sold for larger, nicer homes or vacation properties. My father shared this story nonchalantly, but his voice occasionally rose during the conversation. My mother, on the other hand, was initially scared but calmed down after seeking advice from a friend who worked for a local congressman. A week after the loan approval letter arrived, everything seemed to fall into place. Homeownership is a crucial aspect of the American Dream, and both of my parents contributed to making this dream possible for others. My father even advocated for Davis to develop more affordable housing by implementing land-use policies in the seventies. However, despite high average housing costs, people working in blue-collar and service industries had to relocate to nearby towns or neighboring Sacramento County. In the seventies, Davis had a predominantly white population with minimal representation of Black, Hispanic, and Asian residents. I was always conscious of my family's unique background, as my parents were a mixed-race couple and we belonged to the lower-middle-class. We lacked certain amenities that other families often possessed, such as a microwave, color TV, or ski trips to Lake Tahoe. When I was a teenager, my mother, who had worked as a junior-high school history and typing teacher for most of my childhood, started taking steps towards obtaining a real-estate license. She was fascinated by houses, architecture, and, as a single mother during the economic boom of the mid-eighties, hoped to find a lucrative opportunity. Real estate proved to be more profitable than teaching, but it was also commission-based, meaning some months were more challenging than others. My mother lacked natural sales skills and was not aggressive or cutthroat, which made it difficult for her to secure high-value listings, particularly in the Sacramento area. As a result, she managed to make ends meet but did not become extremely wealthy. I did not often discuss my mother's job, except when I was concerned about waiting for a check or inquiring about a potential listing. I did not take much interest in the subject, mainly because I understood the financial instability of our household and my mother's occasional need to draw from her home equity to pay bills. I did not want to know more than I already knew. In 2008, after eight years in my studio, I got married. My husband had more money than I did, but neither of us was wealthy, nor did his family have significant wealth. Nevertheless, we managed to afford a twelve-hundred-square-foot apartment just a street away from the studio. We paid thirty-two hundred dollars a month for the most luxurious apartment either of us had ever lived in, complete with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a shared roof deck, and southern exposure. Friends and family often visited us, and I felt proud to showcase our luxurious lifestyle. However, we eventually separated, and in 2015, I rented a one-bedroom, three-thousand-dollar, fifth-floor walkup in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn.",
  "summary": "Generational wealth shapes our futures and friendships, whether we talk about it or not.",
  "key_points": [],
  "editors_take": null,
  "illustration": null,
  "coverage": {
    "outlets": 1,
    "also_reported_by": []
  },
  "ai_generated": true,
  "disclaimer": "Summaries, key points and the editor’s take are written by software from other outlets’ reporting and may contain errors — always check the linked original."
}